A Matter of Time
by Nutzkie
Summary: So much of life is simply a matter of timing. What happens when a key decision is made just a few minutes ahead of schedule? How might one person's simple choice effect the outcome of history? Here's one possibility:
1. A Moment of Choice

**Standard Legal Crapola:**

_Lawyers… Nobody likes them._

As a very wise man once observed, they're a lot like nuclear weapons: The only reason _you_ have them is because _they_ have them, and if you use them, then they screw up everything in f***ing sight!

But unfortunately, much like long lines, cell phones and Paris Hilton, they're a fact of life in our modern world. Therefore, it's time for yet another visit from everyone's favorite literary device: _The Legal Disclaimer!_

Rose, Jack, and all other fictional characters contained here within are the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures and Twentieth Century Fox. Any and all historical figures are the property of … well… nobody in particular, really. That's the great thing about history, I suppose: It belongs to everybody!

This story is written as a public service for entertainment purposes only, and nobody is making any money off of this whatsoever. Any attempts to do otherwise will be met with malicious action of a litigious nature, and any other big, scary-sounding legal words that I can think of. Prosecutors will be violated.

Side effects of reading this story may include flushing, blushing, running of the mouth, high stool, shortness of pants, emphysema, pyorrhea, diarrhea, gonorrhea, pneumonia, oldmonia, ammonia, short-term memory loss, short-term memory loss, shin splints, fallen arches, lower back pain, black death and a swarm of locusts descending on your head.

Do not read this story unless you have consulted a doctor, two pharmacists, your local apothecary and the entrails of a goat.

Pregnant women should not even be reading this disclaimer.

No purchase necessary, void where prohibited, see store for details, employees are ineligible, write for full contest rules, your mileage may vary, copyright two-thousand-whatever, blah blah blahbity blah, SO THERE!

(On with the show!)

* * *

**Foreword:**

I made a big decision, a little while ago…

_I can't remember what it was, which probably goes to show…_

_That often times a simple choice can prove to be essential…_

_Even though it, at the time, may seem inconsequential._

_I must've been distracted when I left my home because…_

_Left or right, I'm sure I went. (I wonder which it was…)_

_In any case, I never veered, I walked in that direction…_

_Utterly absorbed, it seems, in quiet introspection._

_For reasons I can't fathom, I've wandered far astray…_

_And that is how I got to where I find myself today._

_~ Bill Watterson_

It has been observed on many an occasion that life is a series of choices. And it is these choices that not only define our life, but determine its course of events. For the choices you make today will forever and irrevocably decide what choices you will be faced with tomorrow. And _those_ choices will determine the next day's options, and so on… and so forth… and such as.

For example, suppose you're out driving and come to a fork in the road. You have two clear choices before you: Left or right? A simple decision if there ever was one.

Now suppose you go left, and after a span of several miles you encounter a swollen stream that has unfortunately flooded the path before you. You suspect that your vehicle can power through it, provided that it doesn't stall, but you cant be sure that it won't. Furthermore, you've already come a fair distance in this direction and you don't relish the prospect of backtracking all that way, squandering all of the progress that you've made so far.

The decision you now face is far more complicated than your previous choice, with implications far deeper and more consequential in nature. But you wouldn't be faced with this decision if you had decided to turn right instead of left back at that intersection. One choice led to another, even though you were thoroughly unaware of such repercussions at the time.

But decisions alone do not decide what choices we will ultimately be faced with. Time has a role to play as well. For as the temporal stream flows ever forward at its eternally steady pace, it carries with it an ever shifting tide of events and circumstances. And it is into this unstable and eternally changeable quagmire that we wade, every time we make a choice. It's not just what we choose that decides our future: It's what transpires around us at the fateful moment when we make that choice.

To wit, this story serves as something of a thought experiment, I suppose: A casual exploration of an intriguing "what if" scenario, based around our favorite apocryphal tale of love lost aboard a doomed ocean liner.

The basic premise: What if Rose hadn't waited until she was standing at the life boats to turn her back on her family and return to Jack? What if she had made that decision sooner, perhaps no more than a few minutes prior? How might that simple matter of timing have changed things? What obstacles among the course of events would our heroes have avoided by simply being a few precious minutes ahead of history? And what new ones might they have encountered in their stead? In the end, it's all just an academic exercise, of course. But still, how intriguing it is to simply sit back and imagine…

* * *

**~ Chapter One ~**

"_I saw the iceberg, Mister Andrews. And I see it in your eyes. Please tell me the truth."_

"_The ship will sink."_

"_You're certain?"_

"_Yes. In an hour or so, all this… will be at the bottom of the Atlantic. Please tell only who you must, I don't want to be responsible for a panic. And get to a boat quickly. Don't wait. You remember what I told you about the boats?"_

"_Yes. I understand."_

The conversation still hung heavy in her ears, it's every syllable echoing through her mind in a hazy fog of memory that made it seem so distant… so unreal. So unlike something she had experienced first hand just a few moments before.

It didn't seem real… It _couldn't_ be real… All this majesty… All this grandeur… All of it less than a week old, and now utterly doomed to oblivion beneath the waves of an icy sea. It was the stuff of poorly written novels or over-produced movies that counted for little more than a wasted nickel in some stuffy theater house. It wasn't the stuff of reality.

But then again, nothing about her life of the last few days seemed all that grounded in reality.

Over the course of just three days she had gone from despondent and suicidal to the edge of intrigue before a dark and mysterious stranger who had seemingly materialized out of thin air and deposited himself squarely into her life. That intrigue had in turn become infatuation, then promptly blossomed into full-blown love, only to be shattered by the trauma of betrayal and pitched headlong into the pit of despair once again: The very same dark and bottomless pit that Jack had so nobly pulled her from that night back on the stern.

She must have looked like a sleepwalker, or perhaps some sort of Zombie to passers by as she blindly followed Cal and his entourage up the grand staircase, always keeping to the right, maintaining the stiff rules of upper-class decorum even in the face of eminent catastrophe. The elegance of Titanic was all around her, but she saw nothing… she heard nothing… she felt nothing. She was numb. Numb to all feelings and stimuli. All her consciousness was directed inward, trying desperately to make sense of the world that was crashing down all around her. And through it all, the words of another person… words spoken not that far in the past, came echoing back to her in haunting refrain:

"_Rose! Don't listen to them! I didn't do this! You know I didn't! You know it!"_

If only she could believe him. She wanted to, after all… She desperately wanted to. But she had seen it. Seen it with her own eyes. She had seen Lovejoy pull the diamond from the pocket of Jack's coat.

Of course, that was all she had seen.

Through the trauma and confusion that clouded her mind, a sort of curious detachment from her circumstances suddenly occurred: As if she were reading a story about herself, analyzing her own character's thoughts and motivations through the impartial lens of some uninvolved third-party observer.

She smirked inwardly at herself with the revelation, as if laughing in derision at her own consciousness for not seeing it before. She hadn't seen Jack pocket the jewel. She hadn't seen him do _anything_ for that matter. Granted, it didn't prove his innocence in the matter. Absence of evidence was, after all, by no means evidence of absence. But without any real proof one way or another, it was just as possible that either Cal or that loathsome henchman of his had simply planted the jewel when neither she nor Jack were looking. Ultimately, it was just a simple matter of hearsay.

As the party continued its ascent through the ship, the disorganized cacophony of thoughts running through her mind only increased its intensity. By the time they reached A-Deck she had fallen a good three steps behind the rest of the group and was in a veritable trance as she began her ascent of the final flights that would take her to the organized chaos of the Boat Deck… and safety.

And that's when she saw it.

Looking up past the gilded cherub that stood silent guard at the foot of the stairs, her green eyes fell upon the ornamental clock that graced the landing between the decks. Ismay had been particularly fond of this piece, she silently recalled, boastfully describing it one night during dinner. He referred to it as _"Honor and Glory Crowning Time:"_ A title meant to instill a sense of permanence and excellence through the ages. How laughable and hollow it all sounded now.

_Time…_

That's what it all came down to. Time. That most precious of commodities… The one thing that no amount of money could buy… And that no matter how wisely one invested it, they would never have more than when they started.

Time that so many aboard this doomed vessel didn't have, whether they currently realized it or not.

Time was running out for the Titanic.

It was running out for her.

She glanced to Cal and his swarm of buzzing subordinates, who were by now making a right turn upon the landing and climbing the final steps toward the boats, but her gaze quickly fell back to the elegant timepiece before her. Time was indeed precious… She understood that fact now perhaps better than she ever had before. But more importantly, she understood that what she did within the span of the next few minutes, would almost certainly determine the course of her entire life, from this very moment until the day she stood face-to-face with her creator.

Suddenly, the fog that she had been climbing through for three decks was lifted. In the blink of an eye, disjointed memories and half-completed thoughts swirled and coalesced into clear and concise ideas and assertions. A moment of serene clairvoyance was miraculously achieved, and in that moment, she saw an equally clear choice laid out before her. The choice of who she trusted more: Cal… or Jack.

Well when one put it that way, it was really no choice at all.

Achieving the landing, she reached out with her left hand and grabbed the banister, and where Cal and his cronies had turned right, she turned left, swinging herself around through an abrupt U-turn and heading back the way she had come. The salvation of the lifeboats would simply have to wait. There was unfinished business to attend to.

Having fallen so far behind the balance of the group, her absence went unnoticed at first. It wasn't until the pack had reached the vestibule leading to Boat Deck and the ship's gymnasium that Ruth looked back and saw that their party was one member short.

"Rose?" she perplexedly asked of the suddenly empty space behind her. Her confusion didn't last long however, as she quickly spotted a familiar mane of auburn locks whipping around the base of the stairs.

"Rose! Come back!" she shouted to no avail. "Somebody, do something!" she pleaded, turning the rest of the group.

"_Stop… help… police… murder?"_ one of the valets shrugged in confusion. Honestly, he wasn't getting paid enough to deal with all of this hysteria right now.

"Son of a bitch! What fresh new hell is this?" Cal growled, turning to pursue the fleeing form down the stairs. "The rest of you, stay right there 'till I get back!" he shouted over his shoulder.

"_Well where the hell else are we gonna go?"_ The frustrated valet muttered under his breath, drawing a resigned headshake from one of his peers.

Bolting around the corner to the back side of the staircase, Rose fairly skidded to a stop on the polished marble floor and darted into one of the three elevators, thoroughly startling its operator.

"Quick! Where would the Master at Arms take someone whose been arrested?" she fairly shouted at the man who wore a look of pure bewilderment on his face.

"I… ah… well… that is…" he stammered.

"Dammit man, spit it out!" she barked. "I don't have the time nor the patience for your dawdling!"

"F-deck." The operator finally managed to get out. "Left then right."

"Then let's go already!" She demanded, reaching across the car and slamming the safety gate herself. It latched securely into place barely a second before Cal's enraged grimace became pressed between its ornate bars.

"I said go!" Rose shouted at the terrified operator whose focus was now solely fixed on the enraged man before him. Almost out of reflex, he pulled the control lever and sent the car descending into the bowels of the great steel beast. Whether it was in response to her command or part of some instinctive desire to escape Cal's wrath, she really didn't care. She was now squarely in a strange sort of mission mode: Results were the only thing that mattered.

As the car descended ever deeper into the ship, she slowly began counting off the decks in her head. It was somewhere between D and E decks, she reckoned, that a stray thought crossed her mind. Cal must have guessed where she was headed, and probably what her intentions were as well. (The fact that even _she_ wasn't quite sure what her intentions were at that moment was immaterial.) Given how notoriously slow the elevators were, and how for a debutante, Cal was actually a rather athletic specimen, it was a near certainty that he had guessed what deck she was descending to, and would most likely get there ahead of her. Visions of the elevator doors opening only to deposit her directly into his waiting clutches suddenly filled her mind. Her quest, however ill conceived and fool hearty it may have been was in danger of ending before it had ever truly begun.

"Wait! Here! Stop here!" she suddenly shouted.

"But this is only E deck, ma'am." The operator informed her. "You said you wanted…"

"Yes, I know what I said!" she spat, becoming highly annoyed with this man's habit of stating the obvious. "And now I'm saying to let me out here!"

With a shrug, the operator dutifully complied and unlatched the gate, depositing Rose into a second-class corridor of white walls and walnut trim. She didn't even bother turning to thank her unwitting accomplice before she was off like a shot, racing down the empty passage looking for a stairway that would lead her to the deck below, and at the same time, out-flank her waiting fiancé.

With muttered curses toward her garments and their utter unsuitability for the act of running, she dashed headlong down the hallway for several yards before cutting left into a cross-corridor and pulling up short at the next intersection. Another empty hall greeted her arrival, its bleach-white walls and varnished floor stretching off into near-infinity in either direction.

In her mind's eye, the world flashed back to a moment on D-Deck, in the first-class dining saloon, the very day they had boarded in Southampton. There, she had first met Mister Andrews… the man who would become the closest thing to a father figure she had experienced in years… and had briefly glimpsed the plans he had held spread across one of the tables. An image of a long corridor raced through her memory, running nearly the length of the entire ship, its impressive span labeled with the Irishman's own neatly-scrawled penmanship: _"Scotland Road."_

"_At least I have some idea of where I am."_ She contemplated, pausing a moment to catch the breath that was now coming to her in ragged gasps. Once satisfied that her stamina had returned, she plunged forward once more into the bowels of the dying ship, moving forward until she finally located a descending staircase. Two quick flights later and she was standing on F-Deck: The first objective in her quest.

"_Now for the tricky part." _She sighed inwardly._ "Following that lift man's directions in reverse."_

Fortunately, that particular task proved less complicated than anticipated. As it turned out, all she had to do was follow the booming echo of Cal's enraged voice as he ranted at Lovejoy, having apparently abandoned his post at the base of the elevator.

"What do you mean she hasn't been here? The little tart obviously gave me the slip, and she has to be coming here, so where is she?"

"All I can say is what I know, sir," Lovejoy responded with all the coolness under fire of a veteran law enforcement officer, "and she hasn't been down this way. Nobody has, in fact."

"Well keep your eyes peeled!" Cal growled in utter frustration. "I'm going to go make a sweep of the area. If she shows that pretty little head of hers, you holler! Understood?"

"Clearly." Lovejoy flatly responded as Cal turned and stalked out of the room. Rose barely managed to duck into an adjoining corridor a split second before Cal emerged into the hallway, looked both ways, and stalked off in a huff, thankfully in a direction that took him away from her position.

As soon as she thought it was safe, she emerged from her hiding place and crept up the corridor toward the compartment that Cal had just vacated. She could hear voices, and stayed low to the floor as she approached the open doorway.

A quick peek around the corner confirmed her suspicions. Both Lovejoy and Jack were present, with Jack handcuffed to a large section of pipe. Lovejoy was reclining casually back in a simple chair, bemusedly rolling a single bullet across the top of a table, his back to the door: Clearly a man who wasn't expecting the unexpected.

_Big mistake._

Retreating slowly and silently from the door, Rose searched her surroundings for something… anything… that could potentially give her a drop on the sorry excuse for a human being that was currently holding her lover hostage. Admittedly, she didn't have much experience with being resourceful in a pinch. That was the sort of thing that seemed to be far more Jack's forte. The life of a drifter is a story of adaptation, after all.

But Jack wasn't there with her. She was alone… on her own… left to her own devices… and she needed to come up with something… _fast._

"_C'mon Rose, think!"_ she silently prodded herself. _"What would Jack do in a situation like this?"_ She began to survey her surroundings, trying to see the world through his eyes. She took careful note of everything she saw, examining each and every item and supposing how it might be used creatively by someone in her current circumstances. Furniture… light bulbs… a janitor's mop leaning haphazardly in the corner… All intriguing in their own way, but nothing that really jumped out at her.

Her blood ran cold however, when she spied the gleaming red fireman's axe hanging snugly in its bracket.

It was certainly a tool. And it would be more than adequate for subduing the unsuspecting henchman down the hall. But did she really have it in her? Could she kill a man at close range? In cold blood? Granted, being essentially one of the "help," Lovejoy's chances of survival weren't that great to begin with. But to willingly and with great prejudice reduce those odds to zero? To arbitrarily sacrifice one life for another?

She stood frozen in place, torn in two by the moral quandary. On one side, the respect for human life that had been bred into her since birth pulled at her with the might of a thousand draft horses. On the other, her love for Jack tugged with equal strength. She buried her face in her hands and silently sobbed at the prospect. How could she ever decide?

But then again, maybe she didn't have to.

And so it came to pass only moments later, that a shadowed and mysterious form crept up the corridor for the second time that night, leaving a well-sharpened axe still strapped into its bracket.

…Right next to the now empty bracket of a fire extinguisher.

Approaching the door once more, she grasped the copper cylinder firmly in both hands. It was heavy, but not so heavy that she couldn't do what she was planning, and _that_ was something most certainly not on the manufacturer's list of recommended uses.

A quick peek around the corner confirmed that nothing had changed. Lovejoy was still leaning back in his chair like some hideous lounge lizard, and Jack was still eyeing him warily from his place of confinement in the corner of the room. With a deep breath to steady herself, she stood up and raised the extinguisher to shoulder height. It was time to put her plan into action. It was time to make some noise!

Stepping silently into the doorway, Jack was the first to notice her presence, and his devilishly quick mind, honed to a fine edge by months of surviving the urban jungles of Europe, immediately caught the gist of what she was getting toward. A lightning-fast assessment of the situation, and he knew what he had to do. It was time to play his part: Time to make Rose's job just a little bit easier.

"Hey! Since we seem to be spending so much quality time together right now, I wanna ask you a question." he said, drawing the balance of Lovejoy's attention squarely onto himself. "You were a cop once, right?"

"That's right." Was Lovejoy's terse reply.

"Well tell me then, with such a background in public service, how the heck did you ever wind up as a common lackey for a slime ball like Hockley?"

Inwardly incensed, but yet still outwardly calm, Lovejoy stood and wordlessly approached Jack, menacing intent burning behind his steely gray eyes.

"I mean, seriously." Jack continued taunting. "How far do a guy's standards have to sink for _that_ kind of work to become acceptable?"

_WHAP!_

The fist across his jaw line literally made his ears ring, but he kept his composure. Having been in more than his fair share of street fights, he knew the importance of keeping a straight face… of never showing pain, or fear.

"Nice punch." He quipped once his jaw started working again. "What _desk_ did the department have you assigned to?"

"Why you insolent little piece of…"

"Hey! Heads up, flatfoot!"

Thoroughly surprised by the sudden intrusion, Lovejoy spun on his heel toward the voice behind him, just in time to see a mass of polished copper come rushing up to fill his vision… Just in time to see the world go dark.

Like a true marksman, Rose found her target with scientific precision and ruthless efficiency, driving the base of the extinguisher squarely into Lovejoy's forehead with a resounding _clang_ and sending the man sprawling onto the cold wooden floor. Then, with a heaving breath, she set her makeshift battering ram down heavily upon the table and struck a triumphant pose, smiling so wide that it threatened to split her porcelain features in two.

"Damn, Rose!" Jack gawked at the overpowering display of force he had just witnessed. "I didn't think you were gonna hit him _that_ hard."

"He annoyed me." She nonchalantly replied, rolling her hapless victim over and rifling through his pockets. It wasn't but a few moments before she had located the keys and was removing the restraints from her lover's wrists.

"Man! Remind me never to tick you off." Jack remarked, rubbing the soreness from his wrists.

"First, let's get the hell off this tin tub." She replied matter-of-factly, grabbing his shirt and pulling him in for a chaste peck on the lips. "Then we can both spend the rest of our lives reminding each other of that fact."

"Come again?" Jack responded, not quite sure how to interpret what he had just heard.

"I'll explain later." Rose shot back. "Right now, we need to move! Follow me!"

"Yes ma'am. You're the boss." He grinned as he followed her out the door. He wasn't sure where this assertive side of his Rose had been hiding all this time, or what had transpired to bring it out with such ferocity. But what he _was_ sure of was that he _liked_ it, and he silently hoped that it would come out to play a little more often in the future.

But whatever bemused pride he may have felt for the fiery young woman before him was quickly replaced by confusion when she exited the compartment and turned right instead of left.

"Wait! Aren't the stairs down that-a-way?" he asked perplexedly.

"And so's Cal." Rose snapped back, grabbing his hand and practically dragging him down the corridor. "So unless you want a repeat of our last encounter…"

"No thanks!" he chuckled, reaching up to rub his throbbing jaw. "I think I've had quite enough of Mister Hockley's hospitality for one evening."

"That's too bad." Rose sarcastically quipped, turning and leading them down an adjoining passage. "His cocktail parties are usually quite the event."

"Really? Guess I'll let my social secretary know, then."

The remark was enough to break the tension, and the two of them both laughed for what seemed like the first time in days. It felt good to be distracted from the dire circumstances that surrounded them, even if it was only for a moment.

But that moment didn't last long, as the pair made a final turn and came face-to-face with a sickening sight. The corridor near the base of the stairs was beginning to flood, and a deck that only minutes before had been dry was now ankle deep in frigid water, its rippled surface reflecting a ghastly green hue across the walls and ceiling above.

"This can't be good." Jack breathlessly observed.

"C'mon! We have to hurry!" Rose commanded, dragging him forward into the deluge. "The ship is sinking. Mister Andrews told me so. And there aren't enough boats. Not enough by half!" She splashed her way down the passage at full speed to the foot of the stairs, still dragging Jack behind her. It was only once she had reached those stairs that she allowed herself the luxury of a few moments to catch her breath once more.

Sheer determination was now setting up inside of her with all the strength of solid concrete. There was steel in her spine and a burning determination within her heart that she had never known before this night, and she found that she liked the fit of it all. She'd find a way to get both of them off this ship alive… she just knew she would. Even if none of the other pompous, shallow, first-class socialites who knew her would ever think her capable of such a feat. After all, they probably wouldn't think her capable of bashing a man in the head with a fire extinguisher either. And look how wrong _that_ assumption turned out to be.

"Now we have to get up on deck and get off this cursed wreck, so let's go!" she said, starting up the stairs. She stumbled awkwardly backward though when Jack's arm pulled taut, his feet seemingly glued to the deck below them.

"C'mon, Jack! Aren't you listening?" she shouted at him. "I said we need to escape, _now!"_

Jack stood transfixed, his blue eyes locked on something he spied at the far end of this nameless third-class thoroughfare. There, concealed amongst the lengthening shadows, a simple wooden chair floated serenely out of a nearby compartment and drifted across the hall. The scene was so peaceful that it was almost beautiful in its own morbid way, and it set the wheels of his mind to spinning.

For it turns out that here was something about living on the streets: The experience tended to instill a certain set of skills within people.

Not least among these was the ability to improvise: To be dropped into unfamiliar circumstances with meager resources, and to use those same resources creatively in solving whatever problems one may face. Whether it was building a makeshift shelter from a pair of old raincoats and some scrap metal, creating an effective prop for begging on a crowded street corner, or simply fashioning a weapon to defend one's self against the more unsavory elements of the city's seedy underbelly, creativity and innovation were the keys to surviving the perils of the urban jungle. It was the age-old art of adaptation… of rolling with the punches as they come, and never taking anything for granted. It served many a young man well when he was out on his own, and it allowed one to see potential and promise in what any normal person would see only as a pile of useless junk.

And in that single piece of forlorn furniture, he now saw that same glimmer of promise.

"Jack! Jack! Aren't you listening to me? We have to go!" Rose shouted, tugging mightily on his arm as if he was a stubborn pack mule refusing to obey. "I said the ship is going down and there aren't enough boats!"

"_Or maybe there are."_ He cryptically whispered to no one in particular.

"What?" Rose asked confusedly, momentarily ceasing her relentless tugging.

"No time to explain! Let's move!" he suddenly shouted, gripping Rose's hand and charging up the stairs with her in tow.

"Wait! What's that supposed to mean, anyway?" she shouted as she struggled to keep up. "Hey! I thought you said _I_ was the boss here!"

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

So here I sit, propped up in front of my PC, contemplating the words on the screen as the tune of Anne Murray's _"Time Don't Run Out on Me"_ plays unceasingly on a loop through my head. (Gawd, I'm going to need _surgery_ to get rid of this thing, aren't I?) Not exactly how I anticipated spending the morning of Easter Sunday by any stretch, but then again… Life's just full of surprises!

Now I realize that things may have gotten a little wordy in the foreword, so I'll spare everyone the elaborate speech back here on the tail end and be as brief as possible. In the interest of full disclosure, its worth noting that while this is my first attempt at fan fiction involving _"Titanic,"_ it isn't my first fan fiction overall. (Not by a long shot, in fact.) Previously, I've authored several stories over on the cartoon section of the site, all of them dealing with the Disney television program _"Kim Possible."_ I'm not entirely certain why I felt drawn to this show initially, although I suspect the multi-layered writing and complex characters had something to do with it. In any case, I'm not exactly new to this dance, so make of it all what you will.

On another front, I tend to fancy myself an amateur historian of sorts, and have been enthralled with the Titanic since a very early age. By now, I find myself familiar with most aspects of the ship and its layout, and I promise you that I will do my darndest to realistically include such features in whatever stories I may write. Historical fiction has always appealed to me in this way, because by including real-world settings in such tales, the world of the characters becomes so much more real… almost tangible. And _that's_ the sort of story one can truly get lost in.

So in any case, I hope you enjoy Chapter One in this little tale. For future reference, I'm a firm believer in the review/reply exchange policy, so if you care enough to drop a note, you _will_ get one back. I'm just sayin' up front is all.

Take care, one and all… and _happy Easter!_

Peace out!

_Nutzkie…_


	2. Adapt & Advance

**Standard Legal Crapola:**

_Lawyers… Nobody likes them._

As a very wise man once observed, they're a lot like nuclear weapons: The only reason _you_ have them is because _they_ have them, and if you use them, then they screw up everything in f***ing sight!

But unfortunately, much like long lines, cell phones and Paris Hilton, they're a fact of life in our modern world. Therefore, it's time for yet another visit from everyone's favorite literary device: _The Legal Disclaimer!_

Rose, Jack, and all other fictional characters contained here within are the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures and Twentieth Century Fox. Any and all historical figures are the property of … well… nobody in particular, really. That's the great thing about history, I suppose: It belongs to everybody!

This story is written as a public service for entertainment purposes only, and nobody is making any money off of this whatsoever. Any attempts to do otherwise will be met with malicious action of a litigious nature, and any other big, scary-sounding legal words that I can think of. Prosecutors will be violated.

Side effects of reading this story may include flushing, blushing, running of the mouth, high stool, shortness of pants, emphysema, pyorrhea, diarrhea, gonorrhea, pneumonia, oldmonia, ammonia, short-term memory loss, short-term memory loss, shin splints, fallen arches, lower back pain, black death and a swarm of locusts descending on your head.

Do not read this story unless you have consulted a doctor, two pharmacists, your local apothecary and the entrails of a goat.

Pregnant women should not even be reading this disclaimer.

No purchase necessary, void where prohibited, see store for details, employees are ineligible, write for full contest rules, your mileage may vary, copyright two-thousand-whatever, blah blah blahbity blah, SO THERE!

(On with the show!)

* * *

**~ Chapter Two ~**

"Jack! Wait up!" Rose shouted as Jack dragged her up the grand staircase. Neither of them seemed to notice how the sterile utility of the lower decks had now morphed into the opulent grandeur of the first-class reception parlor. It was simply a blur of mahogany and oaken wainscoting as they charged up the stairs past a decorative candelabra leaving D-deck behind them. "Would you just hold up for one frightful, cotton-pickin' minute?"

It wasn't until the landing between decks A and B that he finally relinquished his pace and allowed both of them a brief respite.

"So just where in the bloody you-know-what are we supposedly going?" Rose begged through ragged breaths. "You've obviously got someplace in mind. I'm just saying that it might be considerate if you'd clue your passengers in."

Jack glanced around the room, seeming to ignore the question, yet still managing to answer it in his own, cryptic way.

"So where do you suppose the Captain would be 'bout now?"

"Captain Smith? Have you gone outright looney?" Rose gawked in astonishment. "How hard did Lovejoy hit you, anyway?"

"I know… I know! It sounds crazy." Jack admitted with a huff. "But I may very well have the beginnings of an idea here, and, well… I've just gotta try. Alright?"

Rose silently regarded the young man before her for the longest of moments, trying to decide just how far down this rabbit hole she was willing to go.

"All right." She finally agreed. "He's probably on the bridge right now, managing the crisis."

"Great! Then let's roll!"

"Jack, wait!" she hissed, pulling him back to her.

"What?" he plaintively begged.

"That!" she whispered harshly, pointing to Cal's entourage, who were still milling about near the vestibule. Apparently he had yet to return.

"Ah! Good catch." Jack nodded in agreement. If there was a group of people in all the world he wanted to avoid at that particular moment, it was them. He quickly surveyed the room for another option.

"This way." he finally said, leading the both of them up the right side of the stairs, gaining concealment from prying eyes by hugging the banister as closely as they could. Together they darted up to A-Deck, slipped through the crowd, and exited onto the promenade without anyone being the wiser. From there, it was a simple matter of dashing forward down the length of the ship to the stairs that led directly to the starboard wing bridge.

And that was where they found the man they were looking for.

Captain Smith was standing just outside the bridge with a gaggle of his officers, bathed in the surreal glow of signal rockets bursting in the frigid air above. He looked as regal and dashing as ever, his stiff posture and neatly trimmed white beard the very archetype of a stoic British seaman, all in seeming defiance of the chaos unfolding around him. He had the makings of an absolute catastrophe on his hands, and opportunities for optimism were few and far between. Crewmen were being confused by the new and untested lifeboat davits… the lack of a prior evacuation drill meant that few if any were familiar with proper procedure… and to top it all off, the first hints of panic were beginning to spread like a cancer through the bowels of his ship. It was his own fault… he knew that well enough. If he had simply refused to listen to Ismay… If he had only told that egotistical tycoon to take his coveted speed record and shove it up his goddamn arse sideways, then all of this could have been avoided.

"Captain!" a frantic voice called out from below, and all eyes turned to greet the odd sight of two ragged and breathless forms lunging up the stairs; one of them a young woman of obvious pedigree, and the other a young man clearly below her station.

"Captain! Captain Smith, sir!" the young man called out. "I have an idea! If you'll just give me a moment of your time, I think we can…"

"What the bloody 'ell is this on about?" one of the officers barked at the bedraggled pair, placing himself directly in their path. "Stand down sir, and let the professionals 'andle this!"

"Look! If you'll just listen to me for a second…" Jack continued, roughly shoving the officer aside. It was a gesture that was not taken well, as now nearly every member of the uniformed group stepped into the fray… And he was their number one target.

"There's a way! A way to save…!" he was cut off in mid sentence as three officers charged him, slamming him against the rail.

"Get your grimy hands off of him, you limy sots!" Rose shouted, throwing herself into the ruckus with the furry of a redheaded tornado. She was a total disgrace to British people everywhere: She'd known that much for quite some time. But it was something that had never bothered her before, and it damned sure wasn't going to start bothering her now. Not with so much at stake.

"I think… there's a way…" Jack choked out, throwing one man off balance only to have the horde surge against him once again. Somewhere on the outer edge of his hearing, he was aware of Rose's frantic screams as she was torn away from the melee.

"A WAY TO SAVE EVERYONE!" He finally managed to shout as the unruly scrum turned him around and bent him over the rail. He was just inches away from a rather ungraceful swan dive onto the teak planks of the promenade below when a lone yet authoritative voice bellowed out above the din.

"ALL OF YOU! AS YOU WERE!"

In the flash of an instant, all activity stopped. The group that just moments before had been trying dump him overboard like a common piece of refuse now relented, depositing him safely back on the business side of the bulwark. The mass of blue uniforms and white hats parted as the distinguished man of the sea approached through their midst.

"I'm listening." Smith stated flatly, regarding Jack with a gaze that seemed to bore a hole right through him. His voice momentarily hitched under the visual onslaught, but a life on the wing had made him nothing if not resilient, and he paused only long enough for a cleansing breath before plowing ahead with his case.

"The way I see it, sir," he began, speaking slowly and deliberately, yet still trying to maintain as much conviction and enthusiasm as possible. This was a man, after all, who had no real reason to even so much as give him the time of day. If he was going to make this work… if they were going to have any hope at all… he was really going to have to sell it. "is that you have plenty of furniture on board, right? Chairs, tables, bed frames… stuff that's wood… stuff that floats?"

"Quite right." Smith replied succinctly.

"And you've got cargo nets, and cranes for swinging heavy stuff up over the side?"

"Indeed."

"And down in steerage right now, you've got about a thousand, shall we say 'well motivated' people, a lot of whom have experience working with their hands?"

Smith simply nodded in agreement.

"So why don't we just put it all together?" Jack concluded. "Lash the furniture up in the nets to make rafts!" He finished with a flourish, trying to drive the point home. Unfortunately, the only response he seemed to receive was skeptical silence: That, and about a half-dozen looks that suggested he was perhaps a few rivets short of a secure bulkhead.

"Look, I'm not saying that it'll save everybody!" He pleaded to anyone who would listen. "But if we all act fast, it'll at least give those folks down there a fighting chance. And that's a heck of a lot more than they'd have otherwise!"

"We've heard just about enough of this nonsense." One of the officers barked out. "Quartermaster! Remove this man at once!"

"Belay that!"

All eyes turned toward Captain Smith once again, who seemed deep in thought. An entire ocean of responsibilities and considerations swirled in a vortex behind his steely eyes and whiskered face. The weight of the world carried upon the shoulders of one man, although one would never know it to look at him.

"Mister Murdoch!" he finally spoke.

"Yes sir!" the young first officer stepped forward, snapping to attention.

"Go down to the forward holds and gather any spare netting that you can find." The captain instructed. "Recruit as many men from the ranks of the firemen and trimmers as you need to accomplish your purpose, then bring what you find up to the forward well deck. Understood?"

"Aye Captain." Murdoch replied with a salute.

"Mister Lightoller!"

The second officer drew his shoulders back in response.

"Go below and open the gates to the forward third-class compartments. Grab every able-bodied man you can find and have them start bringing any and all flotsam topside. I don't care much what it is, as long as it's buoyant."

"Aye sir!"

"Mister Pitman! Mister Boxhall!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Same orders for the after compartments. Delegate amongst yourselves as necessary. The rest of you, return to your posts and attend to your assigned duties. Orders of Mister…" he cast an asking glance toward Jack.

"Dawson, sir." Jack replied with a nod.

"Orders of Mister Dawson." Smith nodded appreciatively. At that moment, a flare burst in the sky above, and in the flickering light it looked as though the faintest hint of a smile could be seen forming beneath his beard.

The group of uniformed men stood in stunned silence. Was their distinguished captain actually _listening_ to this third-class bilge rat? Had he finally gone off the deep end, twenty fathoms? Was he actually _smiling?_ It all seemed too incredible to be believed.

Of course this came much to the consternation of the captain.

"Well what are you all waiting for?" he bellowed across the deck. "Don't just stand there with your mouths catching flies! You all have your orders! Now _follow_ them!"

The verbal assault was enough to throw the group into instant action. Murdoch and Lightoller clattered down the stairs heading for the lower decks while Pitman and Boxhall scampered aft along the boat deck. The remainder of the group dispersed to their stations, leaving Smith alone at the entrance to the bridge, gently massaging the bridge of his nose. Somehow, to spite having the best hand picked crew that White Star had to offer, he occasionally still felt like an over-aged schoolmarm tending to a clutch of unruly five-year-olds.

"Captain Smith, sir?"

"Yes, my lady?" the Captain replied to the redhead who only moments before had been tearing into his officers with the furry of a raging nor'easter.

"What can we do to help?"

It was a thoroughly unexpected request, coming from a woman of such distinguished class, and the look of surprise was painfully apparent on Smith's face, but it was Jack's shocked expression that amused her most of all.

"Oh, come off it!" she bemusedly scoffed. "Like you weren't thinking the exact same thing."

"Fair 'nuff." Jack shrugged and grinned. His little hellcat was certainly showing her teeth this night.

Smith could only shake his head in amusement. Whatever dynamic it was that this apparent odd couple had, it seemed to be working wondrously.

"Very well." He officially replied, drawing himself up to his full height. "Go below and make yourselves of use however you can. Just promise me that you'll both find a boat before it's too late."

"We promise." Jack replied.

"And for what it's worth, I'm truly regretful for having placed you in these most unfortunate circumstances." He morosely admitted. "I can only hope that you will someday find it within yourselves to forgive my failures, as a leader and as a man."

Neither Rose nor Jack could do anything more than nod at such a poignant act of contrition.

"Go then, and may the mercy of the Lord go with you." He finally said, and turned away without another word, his dark uniform melting like a phantom into the shadows of the dimly-lit bridge. Somehow, they both knew it was the last time they would ever see him.

"And may it go with you as well, Captain." Rose softly whispered to the heavens. "Forever and always."

"We have to move, Rose. They need us down below." Jack gently prodded as he also stared into the haunting red glow of the bridge. "He's made his decision and he's at peace with it. There's nothing else we can do here."

"Yes, I know." She sniffed; turning and following Jack back down the stairs. "I just wish it all wasn't so unfair."

"If life were fair, folks wouldn't make such a big deal out of it all the time." He cast back over his shoulder as they turned the corner and descended to B-Deck. "But it isn't, so they do." Honestly, he had no idea what any of that gibberish meant, but it made as much sense as anything else that they had seen tonight, and it sounded at least half-way philosophical, so he decided to just let things hang at that. Sometimes, making sense was overrated.

Crossing to the port side of the ship along B-Deck, the pair quickly dropped down another flight of steps to the forward well deck where crowds were already beginning to gather, many of their members carrying cumbersome loads of various furnishings. Apparently Mr. Lightoller had succeeded in his task.

And as if on cue, a hatchway at the base of the forecastle deck flew open, disgorging Mr. Murdoch and several other men with faces so blackened by grime and coal dust that they were almost invisible amongst the shadows of the forward alcove. All of them carried heavy burdens of tangled rope and webbing.

"All right! Spread them here, boys! Lay them out square and true!" Murdoch shouted to the men around him. "Drop the extras over there by the bunker hatch! We'll grab them as we need them! I need men up on those hoists to start preparing the rigging! Wait until we're ready before unlocking the booms!"

It wasn't long before the deck was a veritable beehive of activity. Mountains of material were being brought up from below and heaped upon the nets, while some men scaled these teetering peaks like Alpine mountaineers, bringing the edges upward and tying them together into great bundles resembling misshapen dumplings. Skilled craftsmen traveling to new lives in America broke out the tools of their trades and lent their skills to the common cause of survival. Others donated their luggage, tossing steamer trunks and leather suitcases into the buoyant mix, while those who were unable to assist simply stood by and offered silent prayers of encouragement.

Under any other circumstances it would have been an impressive, almost comical sight. But the desperation of the night was all around them, and the pace of work only seemed to increase with every passing minute. As quickly as each "raft" was finished, the surrounding crowd would climb atop and a hoist would swing down to pluck it from the deck, swinging it through the star-studded sky before depositing it into the darkened sea below. No sooner had one such construction left the deck, then another net was thrown down in its place, and the entire process would start anew.

The young couple soon found themselves moving about the deck from bundle to bundle, lashing up gaps in the netting, thoroughly oblivious to the occasional stares they were receiving. It was fast-paced, if slightly mundane work, yet it still left the occasional opening for conversation.

"Not to overstep my bounds or anything," Jack offered at one point, "but you've got something on the side of your face."

"Huh? Really?" Rose grunted as she cinched down a particularly troublesome knot. She brought a lace-trimmed sleeve to her face and drew it across her pale cheek.

"Oh, that's just blood." She shrugged.

"_What!_ You're _bleeding?"_ Jack practically choked in shock.

"Oh relax!" she waved him off. "It's not _mine."_

"Then whose…"

"One of the officers back there was getting a little rough, I thought. So I bit him."

"You… _bit…_ him?" he asked in utter astonishment.

"Yes. What did you expect?"

He could only shake his head and smile as a comfortable silence fell over them. When oh when would this first-cabin girl ever cease to amaze him?

"So why'd you do it?" he suddenly asked out of the blue.

"Do what? Bite that man?" Rose responded, not even bothering to take her eyes off the knot she was tying.

"Come back for me. How did you know I didn't do it?"

Now _that_ was enough to make her stop. She looked up from the organized tangle of cords to look directly into his azure-blue eyes.

"I don't know how I knew." She coyly admitted, showing just a slight tinge of embarrassment. "Somehow, I just did."

Jack smiled down appreciatively. It was all the explanation he needed.

Suddenly, the air was filled with screams, and the reasons why were clear. Water was now spilling over the forward rail, past the corners of the forecastle deck and flooding the well deck where they stood. Those on deck dashed madly about, scrambling atop the remaining partially completed rafts as the sudden surge of water carried them up and over the edge, away from the sinking vessel.

"They'll be okay! Now run!" was Jack's thoroughly understated command as he grabbed Rose's hand and pulled her up the steps to B-deck, the frothy floodwaters lapping at their heels. "We'll still have a chance in the stern if we hurry!"

Ascending to A-deck once again, they dashed hand-in-hand along the entire length of the promenade. Desperation and panic were beginning to spread throughout the entire ship as they pushed through the burgeoning crowd, past the Palm Court Veranda café and turned into the second-class stairway. Two flights down and they entered the frigid night air once again. Another set of steps and they stood amidst the choreographed chaos of the aft well deck: Now a near mirror image of what its forward counterpart had been just minutes prior.

"Aye! Somebody be wantin' to toss me ah blade fer cuttin' this 'ere lashin'?" a man with a distinctive Scottish accent called out from atop what looked to be a nearly complete raft.

"Hold on! Let me check one out from the library!" Jack shouted back, reaching out and grabbing the beret from the head of an anonymous gentleman who happened to be passing by with a bureau drawer perched atop his shoulder.

"_Was zur Holle!"_ the man exclaimed, apparently lacking any knowledge of the English language, but still managing to effectively communicate his displeasure.

"Sorry, borrowing!" Jack replied, wadding the headwear around his fist and throwing a punch through a window of the adjacent second-class library. He quickly grabbed a large shard from the shattered pane and tossed it casually up to the top of the pile.

"Will this suit your purpose?" he called out.

"Aye! That it doos! Thank ye kindly, laddy!"

"Don't mention it!" Jack shrugged, placing the cap back on the head of still-perturbed gentleman before him.

"Danke!" he quipped.

The man simply shouldered his burden once more and melted off into the crowd, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. It sounded insulting, but it was in German, so who could really tell? That whole language just sounded like one giant swear.

"Well that's gratitude for ya'." Jack shrugged, reaching through the now broken window and pulling a book from a nearby table. _"Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea."_ He read aloud, scanning the cover. "Hellooooo, _irony!"_ He tossed the leather-bound volume back through the window, dislodging a few more shards of glass in the process.

"C'mon, Captain Nemo." Rose chided him with a bemused shake of her head, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the rafts. "We've still got work to do. Although I must say, I didn't realize you were so familiar with classic literature."

"I'm not." He unashamedly admitted. "I'm just familiar with making fun of it."

Soon they had returned to their previous task of lashing up gaps around the sides of the rafts, although the ever-increasing pitch of the deck was making it considerably more difficult. At one point Jack lost his footing and tumbled backward, drawing a startled gasp from Rose and landing in a heap beneath a nearby wooden bench.

"And to think… back at home we called this _'fun'."_ He observed as he extricated himself from the confined space. "Ooooh look… _a penny!"_

"Not really the time for that, Mister Moneybags." Rose chided, helping him to his feet. "Now are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He replied, dusting himself off. "But I may have taken a slight concussion, so if I start acting goofy… er… than normal, that's probably why."

"Gee, how would I even be able to tell?" Rose smirked. Even with the circumstances being as dire as they were, he was still able to crack wise, and lift her spirits in the process. It was certainly a skill set that Cal could never even aspire to have.

"ROSE!"

Speaking of the devil…

"What?" she shouted, spinning on her heel, her auburn tresses whipping dramatically about her face. Cal stood just a few yards away, a bleeding and bandaged yet very much conscious Lovejoy at his side. The former detective glared at her with an expression that could have melted steel, and she was quick to toss it right back at him. She was done with being cowed by such upper-crust attitudes.

"Come now, darling." Cal instructed, holding out a hand to her. "You've had your fun for the evening, but the hour is growing late. We really must be getting you into a boat."

"Why? To protect your _investment?"_ she muttered indignantly. "And for your information, this isn't some parlor game that we're playing. All of these people are going to _die_ tonight unless we do something! I'm helping to save _lives_ here!"

"Yes, and we're all proud of you for that." Cal offered in a tone dripping with insincere condescension. "But the people here seem to have it all well covered, so what say we leave things to the professionals? Come now, your mother is worried sick about you."

"Of course she is. We can't have her losing her precious meal ticket, now can we?" she huffed. Honestly, she had no intention of going with this pathetic excuse for a man and his knuckle-dragging underling. That is, until she felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I think you should go, Rose." Jack's soft voice came from behind her. "It's for the best."

She spun around to face him, a look of total shock and betrayal rampaging across her pale features.

"Jack! What are you saying?" she gasped in horror. Was he really sending her back to Cal? Was he actually _rejecting_ her? After everything they'd been through together? After everything they'd _done_ together? None of it made any sense.

Sensing her anguish, Jack was quick to take her hands in his own and speak in a clam, even voice.

"Just for tonight, alright?" he explained. "I'm not an engineer, so I can't vouch for how effective these things will be once we cast 'em off. You'll stand a much better chance in a real boat, so… I think you should go."

"I'm _not_ leaving without you!" She continued to insist.

"I'll be fine, Rose. Trust me." He also insisted, with a tone that brokered no argument. "I'm a survivor, remember? It's what I do. Now get up there and get in a boat while there're still some left!"

She stared at him with bewilderment running through her emerald gaze. After everything that had transpired between them, she couldn't bear to leave his side. But his reasoning was as solid as the deck upon which she stood, and the time to argue was growing short.

"Okay, I'll go." She finally relented, rising up onto her toes to give him a lingering peck on the cheek. She grasped both his hands in hers and drew their faces together until their respective noses were touching.

"Stay alive!" she said softly, yet sternly.

It wasn't phrased as a request.

"I will." He reassured her. "I'll see you in New York."

Then, with a single tear rolling down her cheek and a lingering glance over her shoulder, she turned and followed that man whom she had come to regard as her jailer up the steps toward the posh elegance of the first class decks. Jack was right. It was the best way of saving herself from the unfolding calamity around her.

So why didn't she feel like she was being saved?

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Well things seem to be moving along at a respectable clip here, with chapter two complete and chapter three well into the outline stage. Why can't writing always flow this smoothly?

Now before I go any farther with these notes, allow me to apologize for a rather glaring error in the previous chapter. It has been pointed out to me sit member _ThetaGraphics_ that Scotland Road was in fact located on E-Deck, rather than F-Deck as I had indicated. Needless to say I'll be going back and rewriting those paragraphs once the overall story is complete.

Although it's also worth noting that if one tries writing such a scene while remaining true to both the movie and the ship's blueprints, that unfortunate person will invariably wind up screwed. When building the set for the film, designers weren't entirely true to spec when it came to the lower decks around the Grand Staircase. In real life, it would have been impossible for Rose to follow Andrews' directions as given, unless she could somehow "ghost" her way through a solid bulkhead.

Now regarding the contents of _this_ chapter…

All areas of the ship described are as accurate as I can reasonably get them given my extensive yet sometimes still sketchy understanding of her decks. The bunker hatch mentioned by First Officer Murdoch was located just aft of the forecastle deck and was used to load coal for the ship's twenty-three boilers. Today, it's massive steel hatch lays on the seabed several dozen yards beyond the bow: The only piece of wreckage to fall in that region. It is likely that when the bow struck bottom, breaking the keel and bending the foredecks down at the now familiar angle, hydrostatic pressure from the impact blasted the hatch free from its hinges, sending it hurling forward like a multi-ton Frisbee. A large dent along one edge suggests that it may have struck the forward windlass along the way.

The A-Deck promenades were some of the most well known sections of the Titanic, and are today the most reliable method of distinguishing photos of her from those of her smaller sister, the _Olympic._ Running the entire length of the superstructure they had a "wide-vision" design extending nearly two feet beyond the line of the hull on either side, and featured a semi-open structure along their rearward half. At the aft end of all this open space, to the left of the first-class smoking lounge, Palm Court Veranda offered first-class passengers the chance to enjoy a light snack amidst an environ reminiscent of a conservancy greenhouse. Over-sized windows, wicker furniture and trellises with growing ivy all added to the effect. The Olympic was similarly appointed, but featured the open design along its entire length.

The second-class library was located at the aft end of the superstructure on C-Deck and was accessible directly via the second-class stairway. Occasionally referred to as the second-class lounge as well, it was decorated in a colonial style with sycamore and mahogany paneling. The library's collection of over 400 books was housed in a built-in case with glass-fronted doors, set against the forward wall and flanked to either side by the entrance doors.

_Meet the Crew:_ So it's not exactly the "Brady Bunch" or anything like that, but perhaps this is a good time to get to know the less-than-fictional characters that we met in this chapter. For as the baseball barkers so often say: "You can't tell one player from another without a program!"

Oh, and FYI: This is going to get a little wordy in here, so get comfy folks!

_Captain Smith:_ Regarded by many as the human face of the tragedy, Edward John Smith was born on January 27th of 1853 in Hanley Stoke-on-Trent, England. The son of a potter and shopkeeper, Smith first went to sea at the age of thirteen, working as a seaman's apprentice aboard the cargo sloop _Senator Weber._

His career with the White Star Lines began in March of 1880 with an assignment as fourth officer aboard the _S.S. Celtic._ He rose quickly through the ranks of the White Star, sailing the company's routes to Australia and New York City before receiving his first command aboard the _S.S. Republic_ in 1887. The following year he earned his Extra Master's Certificate and was inducted to the Royal Navy Reserve, and in 1895 he was give command of the _S.S. Majestic:_ His most prestigious assignment to date.

In 1899, King Edward VII awarded him the Transport Medal with a South Africa Clasp for service provided by the _Majestic_ during the Boer War. As his prestige grew, he became known for a certain "quiet flamboyance" as the press often described it, and was widely known as "The Millionaire's Captain" because many members of England's upper class refused to sail on any vessel not commanded by him.

But to spite a seemingly charmed career, things began to go south for Smith in the summer of 1911. Starting in 1904, it had been White Star Policy to give Smith initial command of each and every new flagged vessel upon launch. At first, nothing seemed amiss, but with the launch of _R.M.S. Olympic_ on October 20th of 1910, things began to change. Following her maiden voyage on June 21st, one of the harbor tugs assisting her became caught in the Olympic's prop wash and was pulled beneath her stern. This was followed by a far more dramatic mishap on September 20th when the Olympic collided with the _H.M.S. Hawke:_ A heavy cruiser of the British Royal Navy.

The Hawke incident was a financial disaster for the Lines of the White Star. With two compartments flooded and a bent propeller shaft, the ship was seen by many as a total write-off. To further complicate matters, the results of an official inquiry placing primary responsibility for the incident with Smith meant the company was unable to collect any insurance settlements regarding their losses. Rushed repairs were made at the Harland & Wolff Shipyards in Belfast however, including borrowing a shaft from the still-incomplete _Titanic,_ and by February of 1912 the Olympic was back at sea, just in time to limp back to Belfast with a broken propeller blade. To Smith, it must have seemed as though his sterling career had suddenly been cursed by the gods themselves.

Partly in response to the financial liability and negative publicity of the Hawke incident, White Star took this moment as an opportunity to adopt a "go-for-broke" strategy of sorts. Company Chairman Joseph Bruce Ismay decided to put all his eggs in one proverbial basket, betting that a record setting crossing by White Star's latest and greatest vessel with Smith at the helm would erase any lingering presence in the public consciousness regarding his company's recent misfortunes. He left nothing to chance in achieving this goal, even going so far as to provoke a labor strike at several major coal mines to ensure that the Titanic would be the only ship departing for America for several days either before or hence.

But of course we all know how well _that_ plan turned out…

_First Officer Murdoch:_ William McMaster Murdoch was born on the 28th of February in 1873, in Galloway, Scotland. The fourth son of Captain Samuel Murdoch, a master mariner, young William enjoyed the privileges of hailing from one of the most notable seafaring families in the country. With a father, grandfather and four great uncles who could all claim the title of "Captain," there was little doubt regarding what career path young William would eventually choose.

Following completion of his formal education in 1887, he took a five-year apprenticeship with the William, Joyce & Coy Shipping Company of Liverpool, but after only four years was deemed competent enough to take, and _pass,_ his second mate's certification exam.

Murdoch's career would criss-cross the globe, taking him to South America and Shanghai. In 1897 he would survive the sinking of the _Saint Cuthbert_ in a hurricane off the coast of Uruguay, and would eventually rise to prominence through the White Star Lines with service aboard the vessels _Medic, Runic, Arabic, Celtic, Germanic, Oceanic, Cedric, Adriatic_ and _Olympic._

With such a career path behind him, Murdoch had extensive experience with the largest ships in the White Star fleet, so when the company announced its new class of super-ships, he was a natural choice for the inaugural crew. This would put him front and center for all of the Olympic's early mishaps, including the Hawke incident, following which his extensive testimony was greatly responsible for hanging Captain Smith's reputation from the proverbial yardarm.

Later, Murdoch and the bulk of the Olympic's officer corps would be transferred to the Titanic, and it was he who would find himself on the bridge at the fateful moment that lookouts Fredrick Fleet and Reginald Lee spotted a wall of ice filling the horizon before them. Ironically, it was his fateful command of "Wheel hard a-starboard, engines full astern!" that ultimately doomed the liner: A well intentioned and textbook maneuver with the unintended effect of opening his ship's flank up to a glancing, and ultimately fatal blow.

Following the impact, Murdoch assumed responsibility for all activities on the starboard side of Boat Deck, the side from which 75% of all survivors departed. He was last seen in the vicinity of the starboard wing bridge, attempting to launch an emergency lifeboat known as "Collapsible A" from the hurricane deck atop the officers' quarters when the bridge became awash. Moments later, funnel # 1 collapsed forward onto the starboard wing bridge, crushing several people in the water, with Murdoch presumed to be among them. His body was never recovered.

_Second Officer Lightoller:_ Charles Herbert Lightoller was born March 30th of 1874 in Chorley, Lancashire. His mother died shortly after giving birth to him, and his father, a local cotton grower, abandoned his young family soon after, fleeing to New Zealand. Desperate to escape a life of dangerous work in the factories of England's urban centers, young Charles accepted a seaman's apprenticeship aboard the sailing ship _Primrose Hill_ at the age of thirteen.

Lightoller's early career was a somewhat checkered affair. At one point, a storm in the Caribbean Sea forced his ship to put into port at Rio de Janeiro during the midst of a smallpox epidemic and political revolution. Another incident found him shipwrecked on a four-and-a-half square mile uninhabited island in the Indian Ocean, today known as Isle Saint-Paul. During his third voyage, a fire in the cargo hold nearly sank his ship in Calcutta, but the vessel was ultimately saved, and his own heroic efforts in fighting the fire earned him a promotion to Second Mate. Following that, he spent three years sailing mail ships along the west coast of Africa, during which time he nearly died from a heavy bout of malaria.

Perhaps understandably he gave up a life at sea in 1898, exchanging his uniform and binoculars for a gold pan and pick during the great Yukon gold rush. Failing as a prospector, he worked for a while as a cowboy among the ranchlands of Alberta, then became a hobo, riding the rails to the east coast of Canada where he landed a job as a wrangler on an eastbound cattle boat. He arrived home in 1899, destitute and penniless.

The following year, Lightoller returned to sea, this time carrying a junior officer's commission with the White Star Lines. He served aboard the Medic and later completed two voyages each aboard the Majestic and Oceanic. Assigned to Titanic as the ships first officer, he arrived in Belfast two weeks before the ship's sea trials, only to find that a change in assignment regarding the ship's Chief Officer had left him demoted to Second Officer. The original Second Officer, David Blair, promptly left the Titanic upon hearing this news, taking the key to the ship's optical storage locker with him and leaving the crew without access to their compliment of binoculars. (Historians have been debating the significance of this otherwise minor detail ever since, but during the official inquiry following the sinking, lookout Fredrick Fleet specifically claimed that he likely would have seen the berg in time if he had only been issued a pair of regulation binoculars.)

Following the impact on the night of April 14th, Lightoller was placed in charge of loading lifeboats along Titanic's port side. He was later described by survivors as having taken the adage of "women and children first" rather seriously, perhaps even to the point of interpreting it as "women and children only." He was washed overboard when the bridge submerged, nearly sucked down a ventilation shaft, shot to the surface by the force of an exploding boiler, and ultimately wound up clinging to the overturned lifeboat "Collapsible B." He was the most senior officer to survive the sinking, and would be the last survivor to board the _Carpathia_ come morning.

After the sinking, many would come to criticize Lightoller's testimony before the inquiry boards as a bald-faced whitewash of the incident. Additionally, Lightoller himself would later admit that his primary concern at the time was protecting White Star and the British Board of Trade from liability. However, many of his suggestions during the inquiry process would become the basis for vital reforms of the shipping industry. Basing the number of lifeboats on passenger capacity rather than tonnage, mandatory lifeboat drills, international ice patrols and twenty-four hour radio communication on passenger liners were all concepts originally proposed by Lightoller.

Following the loss of Titanic, Lightoller would serve in the First World War as part of the Royal Navy Reserve and would earn a pair of Distinguished Service Crosses for sinking the German submarine U-110 and shooting down the Zeppelin L-31. Among other highlights, he would also serve as first officer aboard the _H.M.S. Campania,_ a former Cunard liner converted into one of the world's first aircraft carriers.

He would again go to sea for king and country during late May and early June of 1940, as the British Army was pinned down on the beaches of Dunkirk by advance elements of the German Wermacht. Taking his motor yacht _Sundowner_ out to sea, he would make dozens of trips across the English Channel between May 26th and June 3rd, many of them under cover of darkness. As part of "Operation Dynamo," his efforts over that nine-day period directly saved the lives of hundreds of British servicemen.

Charles Lightoller, a lifelong pipe smoker, died of chronic heart disease on December 8, 1952. A quiet and anonymous end for a man who so often in life couldn't seem to even _buy_ a break. He was 78 years old.

_Third Officer Pitman:_ Born in the village of Sutton Montis near Castle Cary in Somerset, England on the 20th of November 1877, Herbert John Pitman was the son of a farmer who first went to sea with the British Merchant Navy at the age of eighteen. Qualifying as a master mariner in August of 1906, he served a four-year apprenticeship aboard vessels of the James Nourse Limited firm, followed by five years as a deck officer. This service was followed by a year with the Blue Anchor Lines, then six months with the Shire Lines before finally signing on with the lines of the White Star in 1906.

Like all junior officers assigned to _Titanic,_ Pitman received a telegram in early 1912 instructing him to report to the White Star's offices in Liverpool at 9:00 AM on March 26th. There he was issued a train ticket to Belfast and arrived at noon the following day, reporting to then Chief Officer William Murdoch. While aboard ship, Pitman's duties included assisting with mooring and casting-off procedures in the stern, calculating celestial navigation and compass deviation, supervising the quartermaster corps, relieving the bridge officer's watch when necessary and general supervision of the decks.

When the moment of impact came, Pitman was off-duty in the officer's quarters, reportedly half-asleep in his bunk. Feeling the shudder of the collision, (which he later described as a sensation similar to the ship "coming to anchor"), he climbed out of his bunk and was in the process of getting dressed when Joseph Boxhall came running in to inform him that the ship had struck ice and was taking on water. Pitman then reported to the starboard side of the Boat Deck where he assisted in the uncovering of the boats. Once the lowering of boats had commenced, now First Officer Murdoch ordered Pitman to take command of Lifeboat # 5, instructing him to cast off and row to the gangway doors to receive more passengers. Murdoch completed his instructions with a handshake and a somber "good bye, and good luck." Pitman would later recall that the gravity in Murdoch's tone was his first indication that the launching of the boats was not just a simple procedural formality, and that something was in fact terribly wrong.

Casting off from the falls of the davit, Pitman took his boat to the gangway doors as instructed, but found them to be closed. Figuring that there was nothing else he could do, he then rowed away to a distance of approximately 400 yards and was astonished by the severe angle in the water that the decks were taking. Up until this point, he had still held out hope that his ship might remain afloat, but such a wide-angle view of the unfolding disaster told him otherwise.

When the stern finally slipped beneath the surface, he checked his watch and marked the time as 2:20 AM. Then, hearing the screams of those in the water, he gave instructions to row back toward the wreck, but fear of being mobbed and capsized led his charges to object, and he countermanded the order. It was a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

After the sinking, Pitman would testify before both the American and British Inquiry Boards, and in both instances would be one of the few individuals to claim that Titanic had sank intact. He would remain with White Star during the following years, serving aboard the Oceanic and Olympic, eventually transferring to the position of Chief Purser due to failing eyesight. During the Second World War he would serve as purser aboard the _S.S. Mataroa_ before finally retiring in 1946 after 60 years at sea.

Herbert Pitman died at his home in Pitcombe, Somerset on the seventh of December, 1961; the victim of a subarachnoid hemorrhage. He was 84 years old.

_Fourth Officer Boxhall:_ Joseph Groves Boxhall was born the 23rd of March, 1884 in the town of Hull, Yorkshire, England. The second child of Miriam and Captain Joseph Boxhall Senior, Joe Junior was born into an established seafaring tradition. His father and grandfather were both respected mariners, while his uncle was a Trinity House buoy master and a member of the Board of Trade.

Young Joseph followed in the footsteps of his ancestors starting on June second of 1899, when he boarded a sailing barque of Liverpool's William Thomas Line. Following a four year apprenticeship, he went to work with his father at the Wilson Line, obtaining his Master's and Extra-Master's certificates in September of 1907. Later that same year, he joined the White Star Line, serving aboard the _Oceanic_ and _Arabic_ before being assigned as the Fourth Officer of _Titanic _in 1912.

Aboard Titanic, Boxhall's duties were somewhat sparse and loosely defined. They included scheduled watches, aiding in navigation, and assisting passengers and crew when needed. On the fateful night in question, he was off-duty near the officer's quarters when he heard the lookout bell ring out from the foremast. He hurried to the bridge, arriving with Captain Smith just moments after the impact. Instructed by the Captain to go bellow and inspect for damage, he found nothing amiss and was on his way back to report as much when he encountered ship's carpenter John Maxwell, who informed him that the ship was indeed taking on water: an observation that was then promptly confirmed by a well-drenched mail clerk from the forward sorting room. Returning topside, Boxhall calculated the Titanic's position and passed this information to wireless operators Jack Philips and Harold Bride so that a proper distress signal could be sent. Later, he was placed in charge of firing signal flares from the starboard wing bridge and was the first to see the lights of a nearby ship, (possibly the _Californian),_ although his attempts to signal said vessel with a Morse Lamp proved futile.

Ultimately, Boxhall would be put in command of Lifeboat # 2, which hit the water at 1:45 AM with 18 persons on board out of a possible forty. Two hours and fifteen minutes later, he was among the first of the survivors to spot the lights of the _Carpathia_ steaming toward them, and ignited a green flare to guide the ship in.

Following the Titanic debacle, Boxhall would serve briefly as Fourth Officer aboard the White Star liner _Adriatic_ before enlisting in the Royal Navy Reserve as a sub-lieutenant at the start of World War One. He served one year aboard the battleship _H.M.S. Commonwealth_ before being transferred to Gibraltar and given command of a torpedo boat.

He would return to White Star following the war, serving aboard the _Olympic,_ and following the White Star/Cunard merger of 1933, aboard the _R.M.S. Aquitania._ He would retire in 1940 after 41 years at sea, and would serve as a technical consultant for the 1958 documentary/disaster film _"A Night to Remember."_ Otherwise, he rarely spoke of or even acknowledged his service aboard the Titanic.

Joseph Boxhall died of a cerebral thrombosis on April 25th of 1967 at the age of 83: The last surviving officer of the R.M.S. Titanic.

Oh, and one more thing… The quartermaster who almost throws Jack off the bridge in this chapter is most likely Robert Hichens. He was the man at the helm when Fleet spotted the berg, executing Murdoch's fateful order of "wheel hard a-starboard!" Later, he would be placed in charge of Lifeboat # 6, where Molly Brown would so famously threaten to toss him overboard after his refusal to return to the wreck and retrieve survivors from the water.

In later years, haunted by memories of the disaster, Hichens became an alcoholic and his health deteriorated. He died of heart failure aboard the cargo ship _S.S. English Trader_ on September 23rd of 1940, and was buried at sea.

Well, I guess that just about wraps it up for things here in chapter number two. The story is really starting to move now, mostly in a downhill direction. (Sure does make playing shuffleboard a bitch.)

As previously stated, reviews and replies enjoy a one-to-one exchange policy. Over here, we believe in customer service! (Hold the pickles… hold the lettuce… special orders don't upset us!)

Everyone take care, and stay frosty!

_Nutzkie…_


	3. A Leap of Faith

**Standard Legal Crapola:**

_Lawyers… Nobody likes them._

As a very wise man once observed, they're a lot like nuclear weapons: The only reason _you_ have them is because _they_ have them, and if you use them, then they screw up everything in f***ing sight!

But unfortunately, much like long lines, cell phones and Paris Hilton, they're a fact of life in our modern world. Therefore, it's time for yet another visit from everyone's favorite literary device: _The Legal Disclaimer!_

Rose, Jack, and all other fictional characters contained here within are the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures and Twentieth Century Fox. Any and all historical figures are the property of … well… nobody in particular, really. That's the great thing about history, I suppose: It belongs to everybody!

This story is written as a public service for entertainment purposes only, and nobody is making any money off of this whatsoever. Any attempts to do otherwise will be met with malicious action of a litigious nature, and any other big, scary-sounding legal words that I can think of. Prosecutors will be violated.

Side effects of reading this story may include flushing, blushing, running of the mouth, high stool, shortness of pants, emphysema, pyorrhea, diarrhea, gonorrhea, pneumonia, oldmonia, ammonia, short-term memory loss, short-term memory loss, shin splints, fallen arches, lower back pain, black death and a swarm of locusts descending on your head.

Do not read this story unless you have consulted a doctor, two pharmacists, your local apothecary and the entrails of a goat.

Pregnant women should not even be reading this disclaimer.

No purchase necessary, void where prohibited, see store for details, employees are ineligible, write for full contest rules, your mileage may vary, copyright two-thousand-whatever, blah blah blahbity blah, SO THERE!

(On with the show!)

* * *

**~ Chapter Three ~**

As she worked her way upward through the oaken paneling and plush carpets of the second-class stairs, Rose started having serious misgivings about her decision, and the higher she climbed, the stronger those misgivings became. What was she doing there, surrounded by the posh environs and make-believe lifestyles of the first-class folk? She couldn't stand it, after all. All the snobbery… the phony smiles and insincerity… the backbiting and self-righteous condescension that went on from the very moment the door swung closed. She hated it… hated all of it. She'd probably hated it for years, she had to admit now. It had simply taken the act of meeting Jack and learning his free-spirited ways to make her realize that fact.

Exiting the top of the stairwell, flanked by Cal and Lovejoy to either side, she felt like a common head of livestock being herded to the slaughterhouse. And all around her, the snobbery and condescension raged unabated. First-class ladies, prim and proper in all their evening finery, strutted and tutted about the deck, fretting about having to share space with commoners from the second-class cabins. Men in fine suits, many of them costing more than an entire family in steerage would earn in a year, spoke harshly about being forced to endure such inhumane conditions, completely oblivious to the life-and-death struggle that was raging on just a few decks below them. It was chaotic to be sure, and there was more than a slight twinge of fear floating on the night air, but it was a far cry from the pandemonium that would surely be raging had Jack not had his ingenious idea. The unfolding disaster was a far cry from the calamity it could have been, all because of Jack, and it only stoked the fires of her anger higher to see that not one of these privileged and pampered pigs even seemed willing to acknowledge that simple fact.

"_Stupid idiots!"_ she silently fumed. _"Stupid, stupid idiots! If you only knew how lucky you all are! If you only knew how much you all owed to that wonderful man! You wouldn't be so quick to dismiss him as human trash then, I tell you what!"_

Working their way around the crowds, the trio made their way up the port side of the Boat Deck, ascending a set of steps to the roof of the first class lounge before cutting across through the shadow of the compass tower to the starboard side once more. As they descended the short staircase back to Boat Deck, she could see her mother kneeling in a lifeboat near the gymnasium's entrance, a look of what appeared to be genuine concern upon her face.

"Rose! Oh thank God!" The elder Bukater woman cried out as she caught sight of her only daughter, clothes disheveled and hair a mess, but otherwise not appearing any worse for wear. "For the love of all things good and holy Rose, what came over you back there?"

"She was down on the slum decks, helping the rats build rafts." Cal cavalierly replied, not even giving her a chance to speak for herself.

"_Oh Cal… If you even had the slightest idea of what those so-called rats are capable of…"_ she mentally grated beneath the insult.

"Honestly Ruth, I don't know what your daughter sees in such uncultured barbarians."

_"I'm engaged to you, aren't I?"_

"Oh Rose! Associating with those lower-class ruffians?" Ruth wailed. "What on earth were you thinking?"

"_Keep it up, mother. You're only making this easier."_

"What could one of their kind ever have to offer someone of your status?"

_"You want that list alphabetically, or by order of importance?"_

"I mean, seriously! Who knows what sorts of vile plagues you could contract from those animals!"

_"Getting warmer…"_

"Now get in the boat Rose! Once we reach Philadelphia, we can put your petty dalliances and this whole hideous trip behind us! It will all seem just like a bad dream then!"

_"DINGDINGDINGDING! We have a winner!"_

"Can I say just one thing before I go?" Rose spoke in askance, staring down into the shallow trough of the boat as it swung lazily beneath its davit.

"Yes dear?" Ruth inquired.

"Goodbye, mother."

And with that, she turned on her heels and began making her way determinedly back toward the stern. She didn't belong to this world anymore. It was perhaps doubtful that she ever even belonged in the first place. Her realm was not a sheltered one amidst the social circles of salons and high teas: It was amidst the teaming masses at the business end of society… It was with the common clay of the working class… It was by Jack's side. She had found her place in that world, and come hell or high water, she wasn't going to give it up for anyone or anything.

Of course that didn't mean that the forces of _this_ world didn't have ideas of their own on the subject. A fact that was driven painfully home as Cal's vice-like grip reached out to capture her wrist and spin her around so that she stood face-to-face with his grotesque features.

"No! You're not going back down there!" he snarled menacingly. "I' won't allow it!"

"Take your money-grubbing hands off of me, you arrogant bastard!" she snarled straight back at him.

"Why? So you can run off to be a whore to that gutter rat?"

"I'd rather be his whore than your wife!"

"I swear to you Rose, my patience with your disobedience is wearing _dangerously_ thin!"

"And I swear to you Caledon, if you don't let go of me right this instant then I'll…!"

"What? Then you'll _what?"_ Cal screamed, pulling himself nose-to-nose with the rebellious redhead.

And that's when she struck… Struck with the speed and precision of a king cobra… Struck using the one weapon that Jack had given her… The one weapon perfectly suited to the circumstance: She spit in his face.

Stunned by the suddenness of the salivary assault, Cal flinched, turning away and loosening his grip for the briefest of moments. And as it turned out, that was all the opportunity Rose needed.

With a downward, wrenching motion, she broke free of his iron grasp, and before anyone else could react she was away, racing up the deck as fast as her flowing dress and heels would allow. There was somewhere else she needed to be just then, and it sure as hell wasn't where she was.

_"Well he did ask."_ She inwardly grinned.

Staring down at the deck, Cal slowly wiped the spittle from his face, seeming oddly calm and reserved for the personal nature of the insult he had just received. Lovejoy stepped up beside his employer, regarding the form of the fleeing redhead that was even now melting into the crowd.

"Consider yourself fortunate, sir." He observed, gingerly touching the bandage that encircled his head. "She could have buried an oar in your skull."

Suddenly, all activity on the Boat Deck stopped and all eyes turned toward Lifeboat Eight as Caledon Nathan Hockley unleashed a primal scream that would have been the envy of Poseidon himself. He turned on Lovejoy, grabbing the former detective by his lapels and slamming him against the side of the deckhouse. With one hand he held the dazed and terrified servant pinned to the wall, and with the other he reached into the jacket of his suit, grabbing for the weapon that he knew was there.

Stripping the automatic pistol from its holster, he held the weapon up between them for the briefest of moments, the deranged look of a madman burning like a supernova behind his eyes. It was a look that struck fear into the very heart of the veteran investigator, even after an entire career spent sifting through and obsessing over the grotesque results of human kind's darkest impulses. He tossed his head back with a chilling laugh, as if mocking himself for not having thought of this before, and then he was off, leaving Lovejoy to slump unsteadily down to the deck as he pushed and shoved his way through the crowd, an inferno of murderous intent raging within his black heart.

"Ah, somebody's got to be kidding me!" Lovejoy moaned, reaching behind his head to feel the lump that was quickly growing to match the one in front. "There is no _way_ that this job is worth three grand a year plus benefits!"

For Ruth DeWitt Bukater however, the take-away from all this was somewhat different.

Her daughter had always been the headstrong type. She knew this and over time had come to enjoy a sort of uneasy acceptance of it. But Rose's actions the last few days had been completely off the scale. The gallivanting around below decks… taking up with that penniless steerage boy… her open defiance of Cal… Even going so far as to subtly insult John Bruce Ismay himself, the Chairman of the entire White Star Line, right in front of an entire dining saloon full of people.

…And spitting in Cal's face? She simply didn't have an adequate response for that.

But to spite whatever disappointment she might have felt in her offspring at the moment, it all went overboard the moment she saw Caledon throw Lovejoy into that wall.

…The moment she saw the flash of nickel-plated steel in his hand.

Her daughter's actions were disgraceful, yes. Uncouth and unladylike, many would even say. She had placed her family's entire financial future at risk with her escapades. But to spite whatever her daughter may have done… No matter what transgressions she may have committed… No matter how many times she had sinned… Ruth would be damned to hell if she was going to sit idly by and allow her only child to be gunned down like a common animal at the hands of that maniac.

Leaping over the gunnels of the lifeboat, Ruth rolled onto the deck and picked herself up, slapping away offered hands of assistance. Her eyes turned and fixated on the quickly retreating tuxedo, and the well-slicked crop of black hair that sat atop it. And then she was off as well, hitching up her skirts and running as fast as her less-than-sensible shoes would allow, her furry surging to beyond critical levels. Her unruly daughter wasn't the only one in their family with an independent streak.

As he made his way up the ever-sloping deck, the feral grin on his face was matched only by the malevolence in his heart. He swept past the end of Boat Deck and entered the second-class stairwell, a deep and evil chortle rolling up from his gut. The Colt M-1911 felt good in his hand; it's size and heft only emboldening his resolve.

And why not? It was the perfect tool for the job after all. Compact and easy to conceal, the .45 caliber weapon nonetheless packed a serious punch. Its muzzle velocity was slow, (some said you could smoke a cigarette between the time you fired and the time the target was struck), but what it lacked in speed it made up for in mass. With the weight of the slugs it fired, being struck by a round from such a weapon was the kinetic equivalent of getting hit by a brick at more than 100 miles per hour. The hydrostatic pressure alone was enough to sever a limb or collapse entire bodily cavities on impact: Perfect for putting that detestable vermin down.

For putting them both down, for that matter. After all, they had both equally besmirched his honor. The little cockroach had forgotten his station, daring to declare himself the equal of the great and notable Caledon Nathan Hockley, claiming his promised fiancé for himself. And Rose… Well she had accepted that declaration as fact, rendering herself a willing accomplice in this crime against common decency. Together they had stolen his personal honor, cutting out a corner of his soul and leaving him a laughingstock amongst his peers. They had both committed the ultimate crime against him. They would both pay the ultimate price.

Bursting out of the stairs onto B-Deck, Rose flew across the teak planking of the deck at daredevil speed and descended the final steps to the well deck in two solid bounds. The crowd had actually thinned out considerably since she had departed just a few minutes before; testimony to the number of "launchings" that had occurred over that time. It was truly mind-blowing if one stopped to think about it, that with virtually no advance warning or organization whatsoever, a mass of people hailing from a myriad of cultures and speaking different languages had coalesced together in a moment of crisis, cobbled together a plan of action, and had executed that plan with almost military precision and efficiency. The robber barons and business tycoons of the upper decks may claim ownership of the world, but it was the energy and ingenuity of these determined, everyday people that made that same world turn. If scientists ever managed to harness that energy, she could swear there would be a man walking on the moon by the end of the month.

Locating Jack didn't take long. She quickly spotted him attempting to climb atop one of the few remaining rafts.

"Going up! Second floor! House wares, cookware, men's haberdashery…"

"Jack!"

"Rose?"

He spun to face the unexpected approach and almost fell off the raft, coming dangerously close to winding up flat on the deck again. It was a precarious event, repeated an instant later when an auburn-haired whirlwind plowed into him, ensnaring his chest with two deceptively strong arms.

"But… wha…" he stammered in total disbelief. "Rose! I thought I told you to get in a boat!"

"Oh shut up. You're not the boss of me." She murmured into his chest. "As far as I'm concerned I'm right where I need to be, so let's just finish what we need to do here and get the Hell out of Dodge!"

And for the umpteenth time that night, Jack Dawson found himself at a loss for words. Somewhere beneath that refined and cultured exterior, this poor-little-rich-girl had found the spark of personal passion, and now that spark had grown into a raging inferno, consuming everything that it touched, and like an erupting volcano it was an experience to simply stand in its presence.

"That's my girl!" he praised her, pulling her close and kissing her gently through the top of her crimson curls. "Now c'mon. We're almost done here."

He was just about to start his ascent once more when a voice that neither of them ever wanted to hear again called out from the shadows.

"DAWSON!"

_"Oh, for the love of…"_

Both of then turned around in frustration, wondering what it would ever take to get this human mosquito to just buzz off. But any defiant declarations or witty retorts froze in their throats the second they realized that they were both staring straight into the single black eye of Colonel Samuel Colt's latest and greatest creation.

"Not feeling so smart now, are you? You measly little worm!" Cal maliciously grinned as he slowly stalked his way down the steps from B-Deck. "You think you can just up and steal my fiancé? The one thing that was promised to me? You think you can just walk up to me and spit in my face? Like I'm some common fish salesman? Think again!" He continued his menacing advance, keeping the sidearm leveled at the young couple that stood frozen in place. "She's mine! I made her!" he snarled like an enraged beast. "I can break her if I want! And there's not a damned thing you or anyone else can do to stop me!"

The frigid Atlantic air crackled with the sound of the hammer being brought back, and if it were possible, the feral grin on Cal's face grew even more sinister.

"NO!" came Rose's anguished shout. She threw herself in front of Jack, fully intending to take the bullet meant for him. She took half a step backward, trying desperately to press her self as tight against her lover as was humanly possible. If these were to be her final moments on earth, she wanted them to be such that she would remember the touch between them for all eternity.

Of course Jack was having none of that.

Wrapping his arms around her waist in a massive bear hug, he spun a full 180 degrees placing their backs to Cal, and himself in the line of fire. He'd done so much to help her see the beauty in life… to know the simple joys of just living for each and every day… he'd be damned if he was going to let her throw that life away for a penniless boy from the ghetto such as himself.

Time seemed to slow to an excruciating crawl during the next few instants. _"Maybe it won't hurt too bad?… Maybe he'll miss?… Maybe the bullet will go through the both of us?… Maybe we'll die together right here?… Maybe that's not so bad?"_ All these questions and a thousand others inundated their minds like the waters invading the ship. With nowhere to run and no shelter from the raging storm that surrounded them, there was nothing to do but wait for the inevitable end to come… To huddle together as one and wait for fate's cruel hand to play its final card.

The rapport of the shot rang out across the deck with terrifying ferocity, causing both young lovers to involuntarily convulse. It echoed off the steel superstructure and rolled out across the open sea toward an eternal meeting with the horizon, while the bullet itself whistled over their collective left shoulders, striking the steel framework of the docking bridge and lending the tell-tale sound of a ricochet to the roar of burning powder and the smell of fresh cordite.

"Are… are we dead?" Rose dared to whisper after several seconds of unnerving silence.

"I don't think so." Jack observed, warily cracking an eye. "Because if we are, then heaven is a pretty messed-up place."

Together, they chanced a peek back over their shoulders, and their jaws dropped at what they saw.

Cal lay sprawled face down on the deck, his weapon laying several feet away, well beyond his reach. Standing over him, with shoulders heaving and her handbag held high like a flail, Ruth DeWitt Bukater looked down on him with an expression that fell somewhere between utter disgust and homicidal mania.

"Why… you… heartless… pig-headed…" she huffed between heavy breaths, still holding the sequined clutch at shoulder height, ready to deploy the makeshift weapon again at the slightest provocation. "Why you… you… you little…"

What followed next was a profanity-laced tirade that would have left even the most seasoned member of the White Star Black Gang blushing through his sooty mask. Slurs and vulgarities flowed from the lips of the Bukater matron like a river and washed over the dazed millionaire before her, who seemed more stunned by the verbal blows than by the physical ones he had just received.

"Whoa!" Jack breathlessly observed as Ruth renewed her verbal assault with a string of what seemed like every curse and epithet known to the English language, and a handful that Rose suspected she had just made up on the spot. "Okay, _now_ I'm starting to see where you get it from."

"Beg pardon?"

"Nothing."

After a good thirty seconds of language that threatened to blister the paint from the surrounding bulkheads, Ruth's linguistic assault had finally run its course. She stood large and menacing over the bewildered man before her, a mother grizzly protecting her cub. Shoulders still heaving, she eyed this rabid coyote of a man with silent contempt, as if contemplating what to do next.

And being the self-starting individual that he was, Cal took her silence as an open invitation to respond.

"You crazy old bat!" he growled, rolling himself over to face her. "You're no better than your whore of a daughter!"

Now as a highly successful man of business, Caledon Nathan Hockley was nothing if not known for sound judgment. Fortunes rose and fell upon the choices he made, captains of industry sought his advice, governments and foreign dignitaries took counsel with him over tea, and financial markets the world over watched his every move, divining the future from even his most trivial decisions. He was a well-informed man with a level head and sound reasoning: The ideal decision maker.

So it was doubly odd that at this most pivotal moment of this night to remember, this titan of American finance made two critical miscalculations:

The first was in severely underestimating the sheer level of contempt and toxic bile that the elder Miss Bukater held for him at that particular moment…

The second was his failure to comprehend that he was currently sitting on the ground, facing her directly, with his legs spread wide in what could only be described as a rather undignified position.

"Aye! Methinks that bein' the wrong thing to say aboot noo." A now familiar Scottish accent remarked from nearby.

At that moment, every red-blooded male on deck winced and pressed his knees just a little tighter together as the resounding thump of Ruth's boot striking home, and the pitiful squeak of Cal's strangled yelp, echoed across the deck.

"Yep. _Definitely_ the wrong thing to say." Jack nodded in solemn agreement. Even after everything the malicious millionaire had done to them, in this particular moment he actually felt half way sorry for Cal.

…But only half way.

Ruth glared down at the crumpled and whimpering form before her with utter disgust. She spit upon the finely polished wood of the deck and shook her head, then looked up to the faces that were now regarding her with astonished wonder.

"Just promise me that you will find a way off, Rose." Was her simple and plaintive request. "Promise me that you'll stay safe."

Rose tried to answer, but found that words would simply not come. The shock of seeing her own mother lay the great Caledon Hockley low in such a manner as they had just witnessed left her without even basic faculties such as speech or comprehension.

Fortunately, Jack was there to step in.

"She will, ma'am." He said, slipping a protective arm around the speechless redhead. "I promise."

Ruth simply looked at this young man from the wrong side of the tracks… the man who had so captivated her daughter's heart, and nodded appreciatively. Somehow, she just couldn't bring herself to thank him directly. Too much had transpired for that to be possible. But in her eyes there was a silent statement of gratitude, and an equally silent assertion that maybe, perhaps someday, the spoken sentiments would come.

And with that unspoken exchange, Ruth turned past herself, hitched up her skirts, and retreated back the way she had come, ascending toward Boat Deck and the hope that vacancies yet remained in at least one of the wooden conveyances, leaving her daughter and her companion alone with an immobilized millionaire.

"We could toss him on the bottom of the pile… Use him for ballast." Jack suggested, glancing down at Cal who was by now curled up in a fetal tuck on the deck, holding his groin and groaning pathetically.

"Nah." Rose shook her head in the negative. "He's so full of hot air, he'd probably float and we'd capsize."

"We'll have to figure it out later, then. Now back to work." Jack instructed. Soon, they were both lashing and tying once more, just as they had been for the better part of the past hour.

At some point they decided to take pity on the still-quivering tycoon in their midst and, with some assistance from a handful strangers, tossed him onto one of the rafts as it was being launched. They both smiled inwardly at the thought of him coming to, adrift on an empty sea, surrounded by the "cockroaches" he so despised. Perhaps he would learn a valuable lesson from the experience? Perhaps the "roaches" would throw his pompous ass overboard? Either way, Caledon Nathan Hockley was guaranteed of having a rather interesting night.

"So I've been meaning to ask you all night," Jack remarked after a period of busy silence, tying off a rather misshapen but still effective square knot, "what gives?"

"Huh? Whatever do you mean?" Rose quizzically replied, putting the finishing touches on a granny knot of her own.

"I mean, it's like… when I first met you, you were all going on about _'Oh woe is me! I've gotta marry the rich guy in the big house up on the hill!'"_ he mockingly observed. "But now… It's like you could walk into a bar and sailors would come running out of the joint. So seriously! What's the deal with all of that?"

Casting her emerald eyes downward, Rose sighed deeply as she started her next lashing. It was a change she had been noticing herself over these past few, wondrous days. And yet even now she still found it difficult to describe the situation in words.

"I guess I was just sick of it all." She finally admitted, looping the cord in her hands through the gaps of the net, slender fingers expertly guiding the braided fibers into their proper place. "Sick of the rules… sick of the pomp and circumstance and ceremony… sick of being constantly surrounded by shallow, petty people so obsessed with style that they completely ignore substance." The pace of her tying quickened as the force of her voice grew.

"I was sick of the restrictions… sick of the expectations." she rattled on, picking up steam. "Sick of the maids and the minders and the constantly having some tutor or coach hovering over me like a condescending cloud, instructing me on what to do and how to do it!" This was quickly turning into a full-blown rant.

"I was sick of having every choice and decision made for me! Always, somebody there telling me what to do! Sit up straight, Rose! Mind your manners, Rose! Don't slurp your tea, Rose! Remember your place! Speak only when spoken to! Marry some pompous jerk with a roll of hundreds where his heart should be because our family needs the money AND YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A GOD DAMN BROOD MARE THAT WE CAN AUCTION OFF TO THE HIGHEST FREAKING BIDDER!"

"Whoa! Easy there, Rose!" Jack reached out with a restraining hand.

"What?" She snapped at him.

"I don't know what sort of knot you just invented there, but I'm pretty sure it could hold Houdini for a week."

Her cheeks became a shade or two closer to that of her hair when she looked down at the unintelligible bird's nest of bindings that she had unwittingly created. Suddenly, she realized just how worked up about things the subject had made her.

"Sorry." She apologized softly, returning to her task at a far more sedate pace. "I was just tired of everything, I guess. So tired that I didn't even realize how tired I was. I'd been a prisoner in that gilded cage of theirs for so long that I couldn't even remember what it was like to be free."

She raised her gaze toward Jack, the glow of the deck lights providing just enough illumination to see the look of absolute respect and adoration burning brightly in her emerald green eyes.

"And then I met you." She breathed. "You showed me that there was a world beyond the cotillions and the high teas and all of the superficial obsessions. You showed me that life was for living, not by someone else's standards and expectations, but by my own." She paused, returning her attention to the next knot in front of her.

"So I'm done with it all. I'm washing my hands of the whole mess. Mother… Cal… the rules and requirements… high society… all of it!" She finally admitted. Outwardly, the statement was directed toward Jack, but perhaps more importantly, it was an inward declaration to her self as well: Her very own Declaration of Independence, freeing her from a lifetime of oppression beneath the closest thing the capitalist world had to an absolute monarchy.

"I'm not their porcelain doll." She resolutely concluded. "I'm not some foreman in one of Cal's factories that he can order about on a whim. And I'm sure as hell not some commodity that they can buy and sell on their sick human stock exchange! I'm me! My life is mine! And I'm going to live it however I damn well please!" She finished off her binding with an authoritative tug.

From across the space between them, Jack looked on with a sense of total wonderment. It was a potent mixture of pride and exhilaration normally experienced by a parent watching their child take its first hesitant steps, or a teacher seeing a favorite pupil finally grasp a difficult concept. For years the structured world of the upper crust had stifled her, the overbearing heel of its finely polished boot slowly grinding her beautiful soul into the dust. But through it all she had somehow found the strength to rise up and break free from the golden chains that bound her, and it was clear to all that she was never looking back.

Yes, a beautiful bird had been set free this night: Free to take flight into a sky full of untold possibilities. And although there was some sadness in the knowledge that such a beautiful creature should never have been caged to begin with, it was more than tempered by the knowledge of a future that would be far brighter than the past. Beyond the darkened horizon, a new day was dawning.

Suddenly there came a series of sickening pops from the forward section of the ship, followed by the sound of buckling and rending metal. Both their gazes shot upward to witness the specter of funnel number one slowly falling like a great steel tree, tracing out a graceful arc against the pitch-black sky before plunging onto the bridge with a burst of frothy white foam.

"Captain!" Rose gasped.

"C'mon Rose! It's time to go!" Jack observed, grabbing her by the hand and leading her up the deck. They could both dwell on the human cost of this night later, if they so chose. But for the moment there were more important things to worry about. Time was running out.

Lunging forward against the ever-increasing pitch of the deck, he grabbed the handrail at the base of the steps leading to the poop deck and hauled both of them to the top. A few feet away, an open doorway bid entry to a cylindrical steel pedestal, atop which one of the aft cargo cranes sat perched.

"I'm going to go fire it up!" he called out over the series of unsettling groans that were now starting to emanate from the depths of the ship. "I need you to spot for me!"

"How do I do that?"

"Stand by the rail over there! I'm going to swing it out and lower it over the side! You tell me when it's in the water! Make sure there's at least some slack in the line when you do!"

"Got it!"

Ducking into the steel casemate, he quickly ascended the ladder to its roof and found the controls to have been conveniently prepared by a previous user. It took a few seconds of searching, but it wasn't long before he possessed a basic understanding of what levers did what things, and the steel lattice of the boom swung across the expanse of the well deck to snag the one completed raft that still remained.

Several dozen souls scrambled up the knotted sides of this monument to macramé as a lone man at the center of it all threaded the crane's grappling hook through the complex web of lines and signaled for a lift. Husbands shoved their wives up its uneven flanks… Families passed their children to those already aboard before following suit. Those fortunate enough to have already claimed their space reached down with hands of assistance to those still struggling toward salvation.

"You know… When all of this is over, I'm gonna be writing a strongly-worded letter to the management of the White Star Lines." Jack half-jokingly called out as the last of his creations rose up into the diamond-studded blanket of the sky and soared over the darkened sea. "I just wish the stamp didn't have to have the word 'love' printed on it on it!"

"Maybe you can try pasting it on backwards?" Rose suggested, leaning over the rail to stare downward into the pitch-blackness. "About twenty more feet and we're good!"

"Gotcha! Coming down!" he replied, adjusting the rate at which the massive spool beside him released its coil of braided steel. "By the way! If I might make a suggestion?"

"Go ahead! Ten feet!"

"If we get through this, let's make a pact to never go near boats or large bodies of water ever again! Agreed?"

"Are you kidding me? I'm considering not even stepping over puddles in the gutter! Five feet!"

"So you're saying you'd like to move to a drier climate then?"

"I'm from the British Isles, remember? _Everywhere_ is a drier climate to me! That'll do!"

Taking her signal, he shut down the winch and locked the controls before ducking back down the ladder and dashing over to the rail where Rose still stood.

"Okay. Time to exit, stage left." He observed.

"I think it's called 'port' on a ship." Rose corrected.

"Better that than muscatel."

"Smart ass."

"Thanks for noticing."

"So how are we going to do this?"

"Okay, let me think for a sec." Jack asked as he searched about the deck. He already had a pretty good idea of what they needed to do. It was just a simple matter of figuring out the logistics.

And that was when he looked down at the deck, and noticed the flowing hem of Rose's billowing skirts.

"Aha! I've got it!" he cried, and knelt down to start tearing at the supple material.

"Hey, hey! What in the name of the Holy Mother are you doing?" she shrieked. "Do you have any idea what this dress_ cost?"_

"Here! Wrap these around your hands!" he said, offering up a pair of sizable strips. "It'll stop the burns when we slide down the rope."

"Really? Well let it never be said that fashion doesn't have its function." She observed as she did as instructed. A few seconds of tying off each other's bindings and they were ready for their departure.

Well almost…

"Uh, Jack? I think we may have a problem here."

"What's that?"

"I can't jump that far."

Looking out over the rail, Jack could see the reason for her hesitancy. He hadn't exactly taken into account just how far out he had placed the fall lines of the hoist, and they now swayed lazily a good eight feet beyond the rail. And to complicate matters even further, he doubted that there was enough time to go back up and reposition anything.

"It's not… _that_ far now." He tried to encourage her. "You can make it if you try. I'm sure I could."

"Uh huh. So why don't I stand back here and watch while _you_ try making that jump… _in a corset!"_

He hadn't thought of that.

"Okay then, new tactic." He redirected. "Get up on the rail and I'll give you a boost!"

"You're going to throw me overboard?"

"Well it sounds a lot less chivalrous when you put it _that_ way, but essentially… yeah."

"Not on your life, mister!"

"C'mon now, Rose! If you'll just let me…"

"No!" she put her foot down with as much authority as she could muster. "If we're doing this, then we're doing it together!"

"Seriously, Rose!"

"I _am_ being serious! If we hold on to each other and jump together, then our combined strength should be enough to cover the gap!"

"I don't know about this…"

"You jump, I jump! Isn't that what you said to me the night we first met?" Her accusatory gaze burned into him.

"Well, yeah. But this is totally…"

"Then there's nothing more to discuss! We either go together or not at all!" The weight of her words indicated that the argument was officially over. "That is, unless you were lying to me when you said those things."

_Now that just wasn't playing fair._

Tilting his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose, Jack couldn't help but laugh at how once again, this first-class girl of sheltered privilege had so skillfully managed to back a street-wise drifter like himself into such a corner. If she ever joined up with those suffragists and ran for public office, the world would be in a whole heap of trouble.

"I hate it when you're right." He moaned in resignation.

"Get used to it, lover." She quipped back, hitching up her skirts and lifting herself onto the rail.

"You know what, Rose," Jack smirked as he too began carefully hoisting himself over to the business side of the railing, "sometimes you really do fight dirty."

"But of course." She responded. "I learned from you, didn't I?"

"Yeeeaahhh… I _really_ need to kick that habit."

"Don't. It suits you."

"So are you ready to do this?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not really, no." he shrugged, slipping one arm firmly around Rose's back and allowing her to reciprocate the action. "We go on the count of three, then?"

"Good a plan as any." She swallowed hard at the thought of what they were about to do. "Any last words before we go?"

"Just that I wish we had a better idea of what to do than this. One!" He gritted his teeth and began a silent prayer.

"Two!" Rose breathlessly answered, silently pleading with any and all deities that she could think of to watch over them.

"THREE!" they both shouted in unison, and pushed off… sailing free into the darkness.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Ah! So how's _that_ for a cliffie now? Ain't I just the most sadistic such-and-such that you've ever laid eyes on? (Insert evil cackle here)

I'm afraid to report that there's not much to point out here in terms of historical background. (A far cry from the previous chapter to be sure.) In terms of the overall timeline of the disaster, Funnel # 1 fell at approximately 2:10 AM, just as the officer's quarters and wireless room went awash. Therefore, I estimate the current time to be about 2:15: Five minutes before the officially listed time of the sinking.

One item probably worth mentioning however, is the subject of the White Star Black Gang. I briefly alluded to these men both in the previous chapter and near the middle of this current one, so it's probably appropriate to offer some background on the topic.

The Black Gangs were essentially the dirty little secret of the Trans-Atlantic shipping trade. So-called for the thick layers of grime and coal dust that perpetually coated their faces, these men lived and worked in the bowels of the great vessels, never seeing the light of day while at sea. They worked, slept and ate in quarters segregated from even the rest of the crew, moving about the ship in designated corridors and tunnels, working twelve-hour shifts in hot and dangerous conditions. There were firemen to feed the twenty-three massive boilers, trimmers to level off and balance the massive coal bunkers that ran the length of the ship along its center line, and greasers to maintain the three mammoth power plants: two triple-expansion reciprocating engines and a steam turbine, each one the size of a four-story building.

These were the unseen army that made the Titanic work, and when the fateful night came, they were nearly all lost: Partly because they were locked far below... far from any real hope of escape, and partly because most chose to stay at their posts, keeping the electric lights burning so that those above them might have a better chance themselves. They are the true heroes of that night.

And for any firearms enthusiasts that we may have out there in fan fiction land, _you're welcome!_ Writing in the .45 ACP wasn't a huge leap by any stretch, (it was in the freakin' movie after all), but I felt such a classic weapon deserved a little more consideration than a simple cameo appearance.

Now admittedly, the "cigarette" description of the ACP's lackluster muzzle velocity may be something of an exaggeration, but it's not necessarily an outright fabrication. I've personally fired the M-1911 that my grandfather carried through the trenches of northern France during his service in World War One, and I can vouch that at a range of 500 feet, the sound of the shot and the sound of impact are two distinctly separate events. Other than that, notable characteristics of the weapon include its weight, (hefty), its large caliber, (freakin' huge), its stopping power, (when it puts a man down, he _stays_ down), and its recoil. (Kicks like a f***ing mule!)

Moving back to the topic of the ship, it's also worth noting that in terms of the overall "lay of the land," so to speak, I'm taking a somewhat different tack here. Over the past few years there have been two competing theories that have emerged among naval architects regarding the way in which Titanic broke apart. One theory is known as the "High Angle" theory, and is the one depicted in the movie. In this theory, the rapidly plunging bow lifts the entire stern out of the water, essentially forming a massive cantilever. This places tension stresses on the hull well beyond its design limitations, and the ship breaks apart just behind Funnel # 3 at the aft expansion joint: The weakest link in the proverbial chain.

For the purposes of _this_ story however, I'll be using the _other_ theory.

Known by many as the "Low Angle" theory, this idea postulates that the breakup occurred at a much less dramatic angle than previously suspected. (Perhaps as little as 15 to 20 degrees from horizontal.) The mechanics of this theory claim that it was not tension along the hull that caused the split, but rather simple buoyancy. For as the bow flooded and began to plunge, it was placed in a gargantuan tug-of-war with the still buoyant stern. As the severity of this difference increased, it finally reached a point that generated a failure of the keel, and the ship broke apart… _from the bottom up!_

Computer-generated virtual models have since proven that both theories are supported by the physical characteristics of the ship, falling well within what could be generated by its design limits under such conditions. The kicker for me personally… and the reason that I'm going this route… is that forensic evidence collected at the wreck seems to support the low-angle/bottom-up approach. Damage patterns at the rear of the bow section show clean, almost surgical breakage of the steel in the lower decks, while the upper decks lay mangled and smashed as if run through a giant trash compactor: Evidence of the stern swinging upward as if on a giant hinge as it pointed it's rudder to the sky.

And thus concludes another thrilling episode of CSI: Titanic! David Caruso, your services and sunglasses are no longer required!

So here we stand, folks! Just one more chapter to go in this saga, which will hopefully be complete by the big anniversary this weekend. (Mark your calendars and plan your parties accordingly!) As usual, leave a review and receive a reply, and I'll catch you all back on shore!

Land ho!

_Nutzkie…_


	4. A New Day Dawning

**Standard Legal Crapola:**

_Lawyers… Nobody likes them._

As a very wise man once observed, they're a lot like nuclear weapons: The only reason _you_ have them is because _they_ have them, and if you use them, then they screw up everything in f***ing sight!

But unfortunately, much like long lines, cell phones and Paris Hilton, they're a fact of life in our modern world. Therefore, it's time for yet another visit from everyone's favorite literary device: _The Legal Disclaimer!_

Rose, Jack, and all other fictional characters contained here within are the sole property of James Cameron, Paramount Pictures and Twentieth Century Fox. Any and all historical figures are the property of … well… nobody in particular, really. That's the great thing about history, I suppose: It belongs to everybody!

This story is written as a public service for entertainment purposes only, and nobody is making any money off of this whatsoever. Any attempts to do otherwise will be met with malicious action of a litigious nature, and any other big, scary-sounding legal words that I can think of. Prosecutors will be violated.

Side effects of reading this story may include flushing, blushing, running of the mouth, high stool, shortness of pants, emphysema, pyorrhea, diarrhea, gonorrhea, pneumonia, oldmonia, ammonia, short-term memory loss, short-term memory loss, shin splints, fallen arches, lower back pain, black death and a swarm of locusts descending on your head.

Do not read this story unless you have consulted a doctor, two pharmacists, your local apothecary and the entrails of a goat.

Pregnant women should not even be reading this disclaimer.

No purchase necessary, void where prohibited, see store for details, employees are ineligible, write for full contest rules, your mileage may vary, copyright two-thousand-whatever, blah blah blahbity blah, SO THERE!

(On with the show!)

* * *

**~ Chapter Four ~**

_Come Josephine in my flying machine…And it's up she goes… Up she goes…_

They had only known each other for three days: Seventy-two blissful hours, and yet she had already come to consider the catchy tune as "their song." It seemed fitting, after all. So many of their experiences together seemed to revolve around themes of flight.

There was her unsuccessful attempt to throw herself from the stern into the sea on the night they had met. With his arms around her, she had "flown" from the bow that evening, and later that same night they had "traveled to the stars" in the back of that beautiful new Renault sedan.

It had been only a few scant hours since that wonderful and wondrous event, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. So much had transpired since then… So much had changed. And yet the memories of it all were still strong as steel in her mind, as sweetly pungent as fresh-cut lilacs on a spring day, the sensations as warm and comforting as a favorite old blanket. She had truly felt like she was flying, being with Jack in that way: Floating on a gossamer cloud of pure bliss. Jack and his soft, caring touch had made her feel like she was the only woman in the world. She had never felt so safe… so contented… so loved as she had during those precious few minutes laying with him. She had slipped with him into a realm of nothingness, beyond sight… beyond sound… beyond stimulation of any kind. Her only awareness had been of his presence beside her… inside of her… and all she had known, or would ever need to know, was him.

It was a sensation eerily reminiscent of what she was experiencing right now.

Sailing through thin air six stories above a darkened sea, the sensation of it all was surprisingly absent. There was no sense of rising or falling, nor of the wind whipping through her hair. Even the eternal forces of gravity and acceleration themselves seemed strangely suspended. There was only _nothing._ Nothing but the sensation of Jack's strong arm wrapped protectively around her, and yet somehow, that alone was enough.

For he had promised her that they would make it… that they would survive the night, and she trusted him implicitly. He had saved her before, after all: Saved her in every way that a person could be saved, and now she knew that he would do so again. They would both live to see the sun rise again; Jack had promised her that, and it was all the assurance that she needed.

And then there came a gentle, nudging sensation. A faint brushing of something cool and hard, yet flexible about her face and shoulders. A sensation that she instinctively grabbed for, and her silk-enshrouded hand quickly found itself wrapped around one of the hoist the cables that now served as their lifeline to salvation.

And then there was the sensation of falling… plunging ever downward into eternal darkness. She reflexively screamed and clenched her grip, every muscle of her body going taut in an act of open defiance against the overwhelming pull of gravity. The rate of descent slowed, but did not stop, while the overwhelming terror remained unchanged.

Impact with the raft came almost as a relief as the sinewy give of the netting rushed up to meet the soles of her shoes. She understood just enough about such things to know that one never tried stopping all at once under such circumstances. Such levels of inertia had to be given up slowly, diffusing them over the length of one's entire body. And knowing such, she took the sensation of semi-solid support beneath her feet as a cue to release her grip and fall forward, trusting that Jacks creation and the souls who now inhabited it would be sufficient to break whatever fall was still to come.

It was a gamble that paid off, for she had no sooner had the thought than she found herself cradled in the supple yet abrasive coils of interwoven hemp cords.

As for Jack, his landings weren't quite so happy.

Hitting the net at a reduced but still appreciable speed, he tried to roll into the fall, as any good stuntman would do. But the foundation beneath him didn't prove true and he lost his footing, planting him flat on his backside and sending him slipping downward toward the freezing sea. Instinctively, he reached above himself and by sheer stroke of luck managed to snag two precious fingers around a piece of the net, leaving him dangling half way between the sky and the sea: Half way between heaven and a frozen hell.

The coarse fibers of the net dug into his skin like daggers, the stinging only exacerbated by the freezing cold. He could feel the blood draining from his entire hand as his tenuous grip on salvation began to slowly slip away. Visions of drowning… of freezing… of being crushed to a pulp between the raft and the ominous steel wall of the hull that loomed just a few scant feet away flashed through his mind. Amid the chill of the darkness and the rampaging thoughts of his mind he flailed about wildly, kicking and reaching blindly behind him, searching for any sort of handhold: Anything to give him just a few more precious seconds of life.

Desperately, he clamored and clawed for anything at all. A table leg… a piece of the net… somebody's hair… he seriously wasn't picky. He could feel his grip getting looser by the instant, his last few moments of life slipping away along with it.

And then he found it. Salvation from a demon sea was delivered into his waiting hand. But rather than the cold smoothness of finely lacquered wood of the biting sting of a rope burn, the sensation he received was one of something warm and soft, yet surprisingly strong and, dare he say it, _comforting._

Craning his neck back to look directly above him, he found himself face-to-face with a pair of the most beautiful green eyes he could ever dream of seeing, framed by a disheveled but still gorgeous halo of auburn locks.

"I've got you!" Rose grunted through a grimaced smile, her grip vice-like around his hand and wrist. "I won't let go!"

He could only smile and chuckle to himself at the sentiment. Let it never be said that his Rose wasn't without a well-developed sense of ironic humor.

With a strained grunt, she was able to swing her lover around enough for him to face the raft and achieve a firm grip with his free hand. From there it was a simple matter of him scrambling the final few feet to the top.

"Nice catch." He heavily breathed, dropping himself exhaustively down onto the knotted surface. "I hope there wasn't a flag on the play."

She regarded him with a quizzically blank stare.

"Sorry… American sporting reference." He sheepishly admitted. "Never mind."

The raft gave a subtle lurch as the miss-matched assemblage and its equally miss-matched occupants began moving away from the stricken vessel. Some used makeshift paddles that had apparently been crafted from table legs and the broken out bottoms of bureau drawers. Others held similarly adapted serving platters from the third-class dining saloon. One gentleman was using a guitar for the purpose.

On a whole, the sight forced Jack to throw his head back with a hearty laugh. Even with all of the thought he had put into this hair-brained idea of his, stressing and fretting over how and whether it would even work, he had completely neglected to consider the element of propulsion. And yet this motley crew of disparate and disorganized individuals from the dregs of society had taken it upon themselves to solve the problem, and done so without any outside direction or instruction.

"Let's hear it for the ingenuity of the common man." He laughed out loud.

Rose was about to respond with what she thought was a particularly witty remark, when from deep within the bowels of the ship there arose a great and thunderous roar. Like a series of explosions merging together into a single wave of destruction, it rolled down the length of the great vessel in waves, moving from stern to stem with the ferocity of a runaway train. And all the while, a deep and ominous groan rose up from the depths like the death knell of some great and frightening beast. The massive form of the hull reared up, exposing its rudder and gargantuan twenty-eight foot propellers to the frigid air. The ship's lights, which until that point had been the only source of useful illumination, flickered once… then twice… then went dark forever.

For those who had successfully abandoned their floating home, an eerie silence now descended across the placid waters that surrounded them. They sat huddled together in the darkness, enveloped by nothing but an ocean of black and the cosmic firmament above, time seeming to hang in suspension, just as the stern of the great ship hung suspended in the sky above.

And then there came a sickening _crack,_ like the neck bone of a colossal chicken being broken, and the sound of rending and buckling steel rolled out across the glassy-smooth sea. A great fissure sprung up from the waterline, almost invisible amongst the pitch darkness as it tore its way along the jet-black hull. The bow lurched forcefully forward and plunged toward the domain of Poseidon, pulling the stern skyward as it went, smashing and buckling the brilliant white superstructure like tinfoil. Funnels and masts collapsed into the sea creating great surging waves that rolled outward in all directions, and the screams of those unfortunate few who had been unable to escape filled the night air.

The great ship seemed to hover there for the longest of moments, pointing its rudder skyward as if in tribute to the cosmic wonders that it would never see again. And then, rotating its decks away as if to hide its face in shame, it slipped slowly downward, plunging ever deeper into the eternal abyss until at last the aft flagstaff and its fluttering "Union Jack" ensign slipped silently beneath the surface, leaving nothing but the shimmering stars above.

Jack looked solemnly down at his wristwatch, noting that there was just enough starlight to make out its face.

"Two twenty." He somberly noted. He felt like he was pronouncing the death of an old friend.

"Now she belongs to the ages." Rose softly whispered into the night.

Over the next several minutes, an uncomfortable and deathly quiet fell across the smooth sea. The anguished screams of those in the water quickly fell silent; whether for rescue or death, they did not know. With nothing but the diamond-studded blanket of the night sky above them for reference, the world seemed to enter a state of suspended animation. For Rose, the only things she could be sure of were the cold of the night and Jack's presence beside her: His warm embrace and softly chattering teeth assurance of his continued existence among the living.

"Sweetie, you must be freezing." She softly observed, slowly unbuttoning the heavy coat that she was wearing. "Here. Take this."

"No, don't bother. I'm fine." He reassured her, reaching over to restrain her as she tried in vain to pull one arm out of its sleeve. "You need it more than I do."

"Oh really? Is that so, mister tough guy?"

"Well I don't mean that as a statement of machismo." He defended himself. "I just mean that I've got more body mass than you. I can take the cold better. Besides, I'm from Wisconsin, remember? Back home we call this 'short sleeves and swimming' weather."

"_Yeeeeeeahhhh…_ And I suppose that means you're just tapping out Morse code with these, right?" she quipped, gently reaching up to still his rapidly vibrating jaw.

"Well you never know who might pick up on the other end." He retorted, pulling his arms in tight against himself with an involuntary shiver.

"Seriously, sweetie! You're freezing!"

"Yeah, well I count myself lucky for that much." He said, his tone suddenly turning much darker. "There's a lot of other folks out there right now who won't ever have the luxury of feeling the cold, or anything else for that matter."

He cast his eyes downward, slowly comprehending the human toll of the night's events as he took on an apparent fascination with the laces of his shoes.

He was slipping into a funk; blaming his self for all that had been lost. And Rose was having nothing of it.

"You can't honestly be blaming yourself for this, sweetie." She said with as much gravity as she could muster. "You're not responsible for this. You didn't sail that ship flank speed and blind into an ice field that you knew was there. You're not the one who destroyed so many lives tonight. You're the one who _saved_ them!"

"Try telling that to _him."_ Jack sighed, nodding toward the form of a man in a lifejacket that was floating past at the very edge of their vision. His blue-white complexion and ice-encrusted features left no doubt that he was no longer among the living.

"That's enough out of you, Jack!" Rose suddenly and forcefully stated. She didn't at all like the downward spiral that her lover was entering, and she was bound and determined to put a stop to it right then and there.

Grabbing his face between her shivering hands, she turned his gaze upon the other forlorn-looking residents of their makeshift refuge.

"Look at these people! Look into their faces!" she sternly commanded. "Each and every one of them is alive right now because of _you!"_

He slowly panned his eyes from side to side and took in the scene before him. Families were recognizable through the darkness, their huddled forms clumped close together beneath mounds of blankets and coats. T one side, a stern-faced man with a turban and a dark beard gazed back from behind the blanket-enshrouded clump of a woman and three young children. His hardened gaze never wavered, but he dipped his fabric-wrapped head ever so slightly, nodding a message of gratitude that transcended any barrier of language that may lie between them.

"And out _there,_ Jack! Look out _there!"_ Rose commanded again, this time turning his gaze out to sea. "There's hundreds more out there, all just like them! Souls that will live to see the sun rise again because of _your_ idea! Do you understand me? You're a hero, Jack! There are literally hundreds of human beings right now who owe their very existence to you! Don't you ever, _ever_ forget that!"

Jack stared out at a horizon that was all but invisible and sighed deeply. He knew that his Rose was right, and that this should be a moment of tremendous pride for him. But yet somehow the creeping pangs of survivor's guilt were still worming their insidious way into his consciousness. He would eventually make his peace with it all… _eventually._ That much he was sure of. But for right now, the clash of emotions would rage on unabated through the darkness that surrounded him, and with his woman by his side, he would one day find his way back into the light.

"_Excusez-moi, monsieur."_ A frail and feminine voice softly called out from the darkness, drawing the attention of the two young lovers. Jack and Rose both turned to the sight of a young woman, no older than her late twenties, kneeling just a few feet from them and holding out a thick blanket, woven in beautiful bands of blue and red and gold.

"_Pour tout ce que vous avez fait."_ She said in a soft, angelic tone, pushing the woolen offering closer.

"I… I mean… _we…_ couldn't just…" Jack stammered, unsure if he could accept such a valuable commodity from a person who could so obviously use it.

"_S'il vous plait… de grace."_ She continued to insist, virtually shoving the blanket into his lap. What was it about assertive women on that darn boat anyway?

"_Merci."_ Rose finally stepped in, accepting the offering with gracious gratitude. If Jack was too much of a gentleman to accept such a valuable gratuity, then she certainly wasn't. He was obviously uncomfortable, even if his pig-headed male ego wouldn't let him admit it. And besides, even with the coat, she wasn't exactly feeling like she was basking on a tropical beach herself.

"Rose, no! You need it more than me!" Jack protested as she unfolded the gratuity and began to wrap it about his shoulders and chest.

"Oh hush. This isn't just for you." She silenced him, throwing the remainder of the plaid material over herself and forcing both of them down onto the netting beneath. "Now come over here and help keep a lady warm."

Not being one to deny a proper lady her request, Jack complied by wrapping his arms around her slender waist and pulling her close. She snaked her lithe arms around his chest and nestled her head into his shoulder, delighting in the sudden burst of warmth that she received.

Suddenly, the eerie calm was broken by the haunting strains of a single violin wafting across the calmness of the open sea. Apparently someone on a nearby raft had managed to save their valued instrument, and was now offering solace to his fellow survivors through the gift of music.

"Ah! Mozart! Concerto number five." Jack wistfully observed.

"Since when do you know so much about classical music?" Rose asked, raising her head in surprise.

"Since my grandmother used to play second cello for the civic symphony in Milwaukee." He replied, closing his eyes and savoring the flowing melody.

"Really?" Rose responded in disbelief. "Well that must have been wonderful for you!"

"Not really." Jack shrugged. "Everything she cooked tasted like rosin, and we couldn't sit in her lap without falling through."

For the longest moment, Rose could only stare at her love in stunned silence. Then, the corners of her mouth twitched upward into a mischievous grin, and before she knew she was engrossed in the throws of a full-throated and raucous belly laugh. She collapsed back down into him, hugging him tightly as the laughter now rolled over both of them, making them forget all about the tragedies they had seen and the uncertain future that still lay before them. For in that moment it was just the two of them. He was hers and she was his, and that alone was everything that either of them would ever need.

* * *

The warm rays of the evening sun beat down on them as they stood behind the cobbled sea wall, watching set after set of waves come racing up onto the gently sloping beach to deposit their shimmering tendrils of foam upon the sand before retreating back into the sea from which they had come. It was a scene of immense beauty and serenity, and one that they came to enjoy nearly every evening since their arrival in this quaint seaside hamlet.

And yet somehow there was a sense of sadness and apprehension about it as well. For while they had been coming here on an almost daily basis for months, neither of them had yet to venture beyond the stone rampart and onto the shifting sands of the beach. Having that sort of a tactile connection to the ocean still brought back far too many painful memories, but yet they still came, vowing to the universe that they would someday conquer the fearful power that it held over them.

The road to this point had been a long one, and yet at the same time, frighteningly short as well. After a night spent adrift on an empty and desolate sea, the distant glow of lights had appeared from the southern horizon to shatter the pre-dawn darkness. They were soon joined by the glow of a green flare, waved aloft from one of the lifeboats, and as the gloom of night gave way to the first promising rays of morning, a great ship bearing the name of _"Carpathia"_ upon its bow began collecting forlorn and bedraggled survivors from the sea. It was a task far more difficult than anticipated, at least when it came to Jack's creations. The makeshift rafts had very little in the way navigation or steering capability, and had to be towed into position by teams of rowers in whaleboats, recruited from the ship's crew. Once in position, their inherent instability became another issue, and crewmen were forced to lash them well and tight against the side of the hull before any of their fortunate occupants could board.

The process was painfully slow and fraught with danger, so when a second ship arrived at around half past eight, the added assistance was warmly welcomed by all. But as was the case in nearly all things concerning social status in that era, the lines of privilege were clearly drawn, and the residents of the hodge-podge hemp flotilla were forced to wait while the gleaming white lifeboats and their predominantly first-class occupants were accepted first.

And so it came to pass that at ten o'clock that morning, the last of those wondrously mottled yet life-giving assemblages was drawn broadside before a rope ladder to depart its charges: The last two souls to be saved being a young woman with fiery red hair, followed by a young man with eyes the color of the sea.

And that very afternoon, sitting in a cramped cargo hold, wrapped together in their warm gift of gratitude and holding cups of hot soup, they had made a pact. Santa Monica would be their final destination upon reaching New York. It was something that they had discussed previously in passing, perhaps being only half-serious about it at the time, but being rescued by a ship called the _"Californian"_ just seemed to seal the deal. It wasn't wise to tempt fate, Rose had pointed out. Not after what had just happened to the ship that "God himself could not sink."

And so it had come to pass that on the evening of the eighteenth of April, two ships docked abreast at Pier 54 along the west side of Manhattan Island. And barely two hours later, a pair of damp, bedraggled and anonymous figures was running through the choreographed chaos of Grand Central Station, having already dashed two-and-a-half miles across the city through a drizzling rain. They breathlessly purchased two tickets on the first westbound train they could find, and they never even bothered looking back.

Five days later, their arrival upon the west coast had been a flurry of activity. The train had barely rolled to a stop before they were both off and running, dashing through the depot and jointly squeezing into a phone booth to search the yellow pages for a nearby Justice of the Peace. Most other couples would have paced themselves somewhat, opting to take a far more sedate pace and spend at least a few weeks getting settled into their new life. But they knew differently. If nothing else, their collective experience had taught them the importance of seizing the moment, because no matter how secure one may come to feel in life, tomorrow is never guaranteed.

The wedding ceremony was their first order of business upon arriving in town: Even before the search for proper lodging. It had been simple affair… a far cry from the grand spectacle that had been planned for her and Cal. There were no elaborate decorations nor fancy orchestras nor bridesmaids and groomsmen in hand-tailored finery. The guest list was non-existent, and even the rings were exchanged via an "I.O.U." honor system. Rose had held a simple bouquet of daisies and tulips that Jack had "borrowed" from one of the better tended window boxes that they had passed in town, the presence of a few stray roots drawing a questioning eye from the Justice.

Other brides would have thought it an embarrassment, but to her, it was just vintage Jack. She doubted that he would ever totally give up his street-wise scavenging ways, no matter how comfortable they ultimately became. You could take the boy off the streets, she figured, but you couldn't take the streets out of the boy. And in her heart, she knew that she wouldn't have it any other way.

Following that wonderful day, the young newlyweds had settled into a sort of domestic routine. Jack was soon able to find work as a costume and set designer for one of the many movie production studios that were springing up like dandelions across the region at that time. He would often remark that for an industry so dependent on working out doors, one would think the southern California climate would have become a beacon long before it did. But as one studio after another abandoned the rolling hills east of San Francisco Bay for the arid valleys of the southlands, he was thankful for the opportunity just the same.

Granted, the pay wasn't great as jobs go. They certainly weren't going to be returning to Europe any time soon. But it was nonetheless adequate… enough to keep up the payments on a small house just a few blocks up from the beach. They had settled into the residence quite comfortably, quickly turning it into a home where Rose tended a small garden in the yard and Jack converted a back bedroom into a studio for his art. The fruits of their labor were hanging low and heavy.

But with work comes pleasure, and the newly-minted husband and wife had wasted little time in ticking items off of the "to-do" list they had started while on board the ship of dreams. In the few short months since their arrival they had thrown themselves into their adventuress with gusto. They had ridden horses on the beach, visited the pier, taken more rides on the roller coaster than they could count, and they had sat together at the end of the pier sipping cheap beers from a nearby vendor.

"Jeez! This stuff is _ghastly!"_ Rose had nearly gagged at her first gulp, nearly spitting the brew into the sea. "I swear it tastes like cat piss or something!"

"And you would know this _how_ exactly?" Jack nearly gagged at the remark.

"Well, okay. Perhaps I was reading a little something into that." She conceded. "But it's still pretty vile!"

"Well what do you expect for a nickel?" Jack offered, taking another pull from his own glass. "It's not supposed to taste good. It's supposed to get you _buzzed."_

"Oh. Well then bravo." She replied, taking another, albeit this time much smaller, sip.

"Hey, Jack?" she asked after several more minutes and several more sips.

"Hmmmmmmm?" he hummed through another pull from his own beverage.

"What does it mean if, after a while, you kinda start _liking_ this stuff?"

"Ah!" he said, wiping the foam from his upper lip with his sleeve. "That means it's _working!"_

"I see." Rose responded, offering her glass for a toast. "Well then here's to quality craftsmanship!"

"American made!" Jack enthusiastically replied as their glasses clinked together and their combined laughter drowned out the calling of the gulls overhead.

Yes, life was truly good along the shores of the great ocean of peace.

Rose had even managed to find a place of her own within the fledgling motion picture industry, as an actress appearing in a handful of minor films. Granted, the parts were small involving mainly background activities meant to set the scene for bigger-named actors up front. But they allowed her to have an income of her own, and more importantly, the mantle of her own career. She was living her own life on her own terms, just as she had promised herself she would, and it felt absolutely wonderful.

Of course the decision wasn't without risk. They had discussed it at length, the danger that one day Caledon Hockley would stare up onto a silver screen and realize that his "dearly departed" former fiancé wasn't nearly as deceased as he had thought. But together they had decided that it was worth the risk, partly because Cal didn't seem much like the movie-going type, but mostly because they refused to let the shadow of Caledon Nathan Hockley rule over their lives. That life was part of the past now… This life was all about the future.

…And in more ways than one.

For in recent weeks, a revelation had come home to roost for both of them. It was the revelation that there was one more life saved from the frigid waters of the north Atlantic on that terrible night: A life that would never appear on any list of survivors or any memorial plaque.

Sliding his hands down from his wife's shoulders, he found his way to her subtly mounded midsection, drawing a contented sigh from her lips.

"You're getting big." He whispered into her ear as they both watched the great golden disk of the sun slip slowly beneath the distant horizon.

"More of me to love, big boy." She breathily replied, slipping her own hands down to her burgeoning belly.

Somehow, the idea that among all the turmoil and destruction of that night… amidst all of the pain and suffering and loss and lament, that something so precious and beautiful could be created, and that she could have held such a key role in creating it… She doubted that she could ever truly grasp the full significance of it all. Their own little miracle of survival, growing soundly and snugly inside of her… The irony of it all being matched only by the beauty.

"You know, eventually we'll have t go out there." Jack sighed, looking longingly toward the broad stretch of sand before them. "At some point he'll want to play on the beach."

"Or _she_ will." Rose added with a subdued tone. "But I suppose that's a bridge we'll just have to cross when we come to it." She honestly didn't know _how_ they would ever overcome their phobia, but when it came to places their child was involved, then she was sure that they would find a way.

"Well, looks like the show's over for another night." Jack observed as the last rays of twilight danced across the western sky. "Although I hear tomorrow's feature is supposed to be pretty good too."

"It's a date, then." Rose smiled, leaning back into him and craning her neck to steal a quick kiss. "But for right now, I seem to recall that there's a soft, warm bed just a few blocks from here that's been getting great reviews."

"Well, I suppose we could go check out what all the fuss is about." Jack slowly pondered, rubbing his chin in mock thought. "Does this fine establishment happen to take reservations?"

"Indubitably." Rose quipped in return, exaggerating every element of her soft British accent for effect. "I've already got us a spot on the list, for three." She gave her stomach a gentle pat.

"Well then, I do believe that we should be departing forthwith." Jack said with a flourish, slipping a strong yet gentle arm around her shoulders. "It t'would be a great shame to keep the maitre d' waiting."

And with that they both turned their backs to the rolling surf, slowly strolling up the hill toward their new home with Rose resting her head on her husband's supportive shoulder. They were a world away from the either the posh mansions of Philadelphia or the gritty streets of Europe: Not at all the sort of life that either of them had envisioned just a few short months ago. But through it all… the trials and tribulations… the heartache and adversity… the tragedy and terror of that horrific night… they had found each other… and found their happiness. Just as they somehow always knew that they would.

It was only a matter of time.

_**~ Fini ~**_

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Well, it looks like that pretty much wraps things up for this little tale. I earnestly hope that I haven't wasted everyone's time. But when an idea grabs a hold of you and won't let go, sometimes the only possible cure, (besides costly elective surgery), is to write it out and hope for the best. Thanks for being my unwitting physicians in this matter.

So in the end, we find that our heroes get their happy ending, the final tally from the disaster isn't nearly so jaw-dropping in its scope, and the _Californian_ gets to fish a few survivors out of the water so Stan Lord doesn't come out of it looking quite so much like the biggest douche bag in history. So everybody wins! (Well, _most_ everybody.)

Regarding the possibility of future stories within the realm of this fandom, I can't say for sure. I really only wrote this story on a whim, so I wouldn't at this point call myself a bona-fide member of the community. However as an avid history buff with a gift for gab and a slightly more than abiding interest in the Titanic, it's just as valid a statement to say that anything is possible.

I've even had an idea recently for another alternate history tale involving our two favorite characters, but with something of a sci-fi twist. Think "Titanic" meets "The Final Countdown." Whether or not this story will ever see the light of day… who's to say. But as we said above, anything's possible.

And just to stop the questions before they come, I know what you're all thinking. _"Movies?… The Bay Area?… What the f*ck?"_

Well get used to the idea, my little chickadees. It's true.

In a time before anyone had ever even heard of a place called Hollywood, the fledgling movie industry was centered in the small town of Niles. Set in the rolling hills of Alameda county about 25 miles south of Oakland, (and about an hour's drive from my front door), the community today has changed little since the 1920s, it's main street looking like a film set, straight off of a studio back lot.

It's still home to one of the premier film museums and archives in the United States today, but for the most part it functions as a satellite "bedroom community" for the nearby Silicon Valley.

As I sit here writing these notes and contemplating all the words that have preceded them, I find myself glancing to the clock at the bottom corner of my screen. It's almost six o'clock in the evening here in California… just a little more than forty minutes to go until the moment marking exactly one century since the fateful moment of impact: The moment that so changed our world forever. So many questions are raised in such a moment… so many implications are presented for preponderance.

What if David Blair hadn't walked off the ship in Belfast, taking the key to the binoculars cabinet with him? What if Jack Philips hadn't insulted Cyril Evans of the _Californian_ over the wireless, causing him to become frustrated and shut down his set for the night, as it turned out just ten short minutes before the fatal strike occurred. What if Captain Smith had decided to let discretion be the better part of valor and tell J. Bruce Ismay to take a long walk down a short pier and hug an octopus? Like most disasters, the story of the _Titanic_ is not one of a single, catastrophic failure. Rather, it was the result of many small things along a long and convoluted path, coming together in a series of unforeseen coincidences and resulting in calamity. The entire thing is like a giant game of _Jenga,_ in a metaphorical way: If one simply removes the right block from the stack, the entire infrastructure of the disaster comes crashing down, and the event never occurs.

But this fact is tempered by the knowledge that if it had not been the Titanic to strike that iceberg a century ago, then we would today be speaking about the fate of some other great ship… lamenting the loss of her passengers and crew instead. For beyond the specific details of the Titanic disaster, there existed a culture of malignant recklessness within the world that surrounded her.

The frigid waters of the North Atlantic were a speedway during that era, where immense fortunes were wagered on the outcome of a simple formula: Build the largest ship ever attempted, deck it out to the nines in regal finery, take it to America at a break-neck speed exceeding any and all that have come before you, and reap the social and financial accolades that such a feat would bring.

…At least until someone else came along with a bigger, grander and faster vessel. Then, the game would start all over again.

It was a potent stew of megalomania and greed that led to an upward spiral of increasing risk among the business titans that sat around this great poker table of trade. A grand game of economic and personal brinkmanship that in the end could only lead to catastrophe. In this realm of systemic risk-taking, a tragedy of Titanic proportions was all but inevitable.

In the end, the lesson of the Titanic is one of human arrogance and ultimate frailty: A real-world reminder that while homo sapiens may claim ownership of this blue and green marble in space, we are truly but guests of Mother Nature, and it is she who sets the rules of her own house. If we take heed and observe these rules with due diligence, then our civilization will continue to grow and flourish, just as we have come to expect. But if we choose to ignore those same rules with hubris in our hearts, then the world will shake us off like a bad case of fleas, leaving the fortunate few to pick up the pieces and ponder the error of their ways.

Progress and recalcitrance… overreach and regret… human ambition versus mankind's place within the grand scheme of the cosmos… These are the lessons which the Titanic has to teach us.

May we all learn them well!

_Nutzkie…_


End file.
